Manner of Devotion
by DJ Clawson
Summary: Story 5 in the Bit of Advice series. It's 1817, and as the children of the DarcyBingley family struggle in their journey to adulthood, Brother Gregoire tries to find his own path in life. Complete.
1. The Miracle Worker

Manner of Devotion

By DJ Clawson

"Everybody likes to go their own way--to choose their own time and manner of devotion."

- Jane Austen, _Mansfield Park_

This story continues the series that began with "A Bit of Advice." At this point, you really should go read the others before trying to read this one. New characters abound.

**Introduction**

...So. We're back! First, there's now a website for a revised version of the old stories, a character guide, and a forum where you can bug me about my inconsistencies:

www (dot) laughingmanpublications (dot) com / myseries.htm

And let's play some catch-up, because even I admit the character list is getting a little long. **In our last story**, we all learned that if the mail doesn't come, you should just wait a little longer. Dr. Maddox and Mr. Darcy had to be rescued from an Austrian prison. Elizabeth had a third daughter, Cassandra. Caroline Maddox had a son, Daniel Maddox II. Grégoire moved to a monastery in Spain. Brian and Princess Nadezhda Maddox returned from their long way home (with a detour in Japan) to start a silk business with Charles Bingley. Richard and Anne Fitzwilliam had a son, and Lady Catherine died.

**It's now 1817**, three years after the events of "Left to Follow." The kids are getting older, so I'll just list their ages here. The younger one won't be as important to the story, so don't worry about them. As for the adults, most of them are in their thirties or early forties. Only Brian Maddox is pushing fifty, and Mr. Bennet is just old.

In order of age:

George Wickham 13  
Georgiana Bingley and Geoffrey Darcy 12  
Charles and Eliza Bingley 10  
Isabella Wickham 10  
Frederick and Emily Maddox 8  
Joseph Bennet 8  
Anne Darcy 7  
Edmund Bingley 6  
Sarah Darcy 5  
Cassandra Darcy 4  
Daniel Maddox Jr. 3  
Henry Fitzwilliam 3

* * *

Chapter 1 – The Miracle Worker

"Brother Gregory," said Prior Pullo, "the abbot requests your presence."

Grégoire hadn't even seen Prior Pullo's approach. He had been consumed by his gardening, and his wide straw sun hat blocked most of his vision of the world above the soil. "I am at the abbot's disposal," he said, pushing himself to his feet and setting his tools aside. The patch was coming along nicely despite the heat; the fauna seemed to have more of a resistance to the Spanish summer than he did.

Grégoire Bellamont-Darcy had taken the cowl now eight years as a Benedictine, the last four spent in the ancient monastery on the hilltop in Vila de Bares on the Iberian coast. He thought he would be more adrift in foreign soil, but a born Frenchman who had lived in England and Bavaria knew how to make himself at home. At home was the Rule, and the daily rhythms of the monastic life that had been in place for centuries. Some came to run from the world, but he came to give his life to G-d. That his accent was different, that he was used to colder climates, or even his heritage as the bastard mix of an English gentleman and his French maid could not stand between Grégoire and the familiarities of the contemplative life.

He went happily to the abbot, a kindly old monk whom had been appointed from Rome and would sit on his seat until his death or reassignment. Beneath him was Prior Pullo, who did not have the same smile for Grégoire that the others had, despite what he owed him. Grégoire had been offered the position as brother prior the year before, and turned it down. He was not a political animal, and he had the sense to see that path for what it was and avoid it.

It was a long walk up the steep hill to the abbey gates, where he deposited his laughably wide hat and followed the brother prior, taking on a more serious air. Behind the door he sought was a man of great stature and spiritual insight, and he wanted to look at least like he had not had his robes trailing in the soil. It was not to be. The abbot would take no note of such material concerns, no? How foolish of him to think otherwise.

Grégoire was still chastising himself as he entered. The abbot's office was not particularly grand, but the 12th-century fresco of saints never failed to astound him in their medieval beauty. "Father Abbot."

"Brother Grégoire," he replied, nodding for the brother to take a seat. The abbot had a busy schedule and this was not confessional, so he was politely to the point. "There is a rumor on the wind."

"I am not much for rumors, Father. You must enlighten me."

The abbot smiled in a sad sort of way. "It is concerning your conduct with the Valencia house visit."

"I am at a loss, Father." His mind was truly blank. "Is Pablo all right? Has something happened?"

"No, the child is doing quite well, or so I am told."

"Blessed the L-rd," Grégoire said, and crossed himself. This left him to guess, and he did not like to guess. "If this is about the christening, the father was so very insistent that his son would relapse and be damned – "but the abbot raised his hand. This was not the problem.

"You were authorized to perform that christening, and it was overdue." From the very day he was born, Pablo was too ill to christen. The priest would not go near him. It was only during Grégoire's third visit that the child recovered enough for the ceremony, and Grégoire was honored to perform it that very night, so late it was almost morning, and save the child from the fires of hell. "The question on some people's mind is how the child was restored so quickly to health."

Still helpless in finding an understanding of his situation, Grégoire said, "On the first visit I bathed the child with soap, which had not been done before. He was still very yellow, so I put him in the sun for several hours, as I heard that the sun's rays have restorative effects on a child. On the second visit, he was less so, but he still had the blotches, and I happened to inquire as to where his blanket was made. His mother said it had been made for her previous child, a girl whom had died within a few days of her birth. I thought it best that they discard the blanket, and they agreed. I bathed him again, and the next day, he was restored."

"So I have heard."

"Is ... there something wrong with that, Father?"

"Please close the door, Brother Grégoire."

Increasingly uneasy, Grégoire did so, and returned to his seat.

The abbot sat up. "There are people who are calling the child's recovery a miracle. I am seeking the source of these rumors."

"This is the first I've heard of them," he said. "Yes, it was a wondrous act of G-d to return the infant to health, but on our own earth, I believe it was merely a matter of a diseased blanket that was giving the newborn a rash or two. I would not call it a miracle, Father."

"Neither would I, though the Good L-rd's help is needed in every act, even the most simple." The abbot rubbed his chin. "However, this is not the first case of a quick recover under your care."

Grégoire swallowed. "Father, I cannot apologize for something that I was sent to do. Nor do I understand why I must."

"You are wiser in the ways of G-d than in the ways of the world. While this is generally beneficial, I do not think it aids you here," the abbot said. "Grégoire, the people are willing to believe in miracles – but the word is a precarious one when constantly mentioned concerning one person."

"Father, I did not mean – "

"I know very well what you meant and what you didn't. However, the people may not see it with the same eyes. I wish to protect you from what you will bring upon yourself – or at least make you aware of it. The choice is before you then – to continue your visits with the potential of gaining a reputation, for good or ill."

He had no hesitation. "With all due respect, Father, if I am the most qualified to work with the ill and infirmed, then it would be most beneficial for everyone for me to do so."

"And you are willing to face the consequences?"

"There cannot be bad consequences for doing good work."

The abbot smiled. "You are forgetting, then, the story of our L-rd and Savior."

Grégoire colored, humbly lowering his head. "Forgive me. I do not presume to imagine myself in such a position – "

"Of course not. I will give you time to contemplate your decision. Do not presume lions to be lambs before you throw yourself to them."

* * *

Walking always settled Grégoire's mind, and unsettled it was. As simply-spoken as the abbot had been, the subtlety had not been missed. To be a good monk was one thing. To be a miracle worker was another. "L-rd in Heaven," he said, "let me not stray the people towards blasphemy."

After Vespers, the air began to cool, but it was not dark yet, and would not be so for a few hours. He set out immediately after supper. He liked the abbey grounds very much, some sown fields and some untouched wilderness. There was a point, not far away, that one could see the coast, and smell the salt in the air.

Little houses populated the area near the cliffs. They had lived there for generations, perhaps believing the air to be beneficial, and they worked the abbey lands beyond what the monks themselves could manage for a good wage, often in kind. He knew almost every home, or at least the families living within them. It was quite impossible not to.

"Brother Gregory!" someone called out and he turned to see the approach of Señor Diaz, a carpenter responsible for most of the new wooden construction in the abbey. He spoke nothing but Spanish, like most of the people in the area. "What are you doing, out so late?"

"There is light yet," he said, bowing. "Señor Diaz. How are you?"

"I am well, thank G-d."

"And your wife? Your daughters?" For Diaz had three.

"They are all well." He slapped him on the shoulder, and Grégoire was very good at hiding the wince in pain. "Brother, will you carry a message to the abbot? I will tell you first that it is not good news."

"The abbot is an understanding man," he said. "What is the matter?"

"I am supposed to build the new seats for the chapel, the ones that were eaten by mites last winter, but I do not know how I can do it. The price of the kind of wood that the abbey requires is so high – "

"I am sure the abbey will reimburse you for the expense, Señor."

"It is not just that. I will have to travel all the way to Oviedo for the wood, and I do not have the time or the money. You know the storm we had at the beginning of the spring? The very beginning? Right before the days of rain?"

"Yes."

He seemed to be pleading with him. "They destroyed so many houses – I am so busy rebuilding them."

"Business is good for you, then. I am sure the pews can wait. It is only a few that were damaged. Helping the people is more important."

"Yes, but the people have no money to pay me, and I cannot work for free. I am the only carpenter here – I am exhausted. I do not know what I am going to do."

"Oh," Grégoire said. "You say the families are in financial distress?"

"Yes – not for food but for stable roofs. Just yesterday, Señora Alvarado's kitchen roof caved in. She was fortunate to be in the other room, or she might have been killed."

"Why did you not inform the abbot? It is not fair for good people to sit without shelter while we live in a castle."

Diaz looked relieved. "I am glad you see it that way, but the abbey already feeds us – we cannot ask for more. I am sorry, but we have our pride."

Grégoire nodded. "I see." He put a hand gently on Diaz's shoulder. "Perhaps good luck will blow your way with the winds from the sea. Trust in G-d, Señor. I assure you that you need not worry about the pews or acquiring the wood."

"Thank you, Brother Grégoire."

He bowed. "I have done little to earn your thanks. But, now, I must return for Compline. Go with G-d, Señor Diaz."

"Go with G-d, Brother Gregory."

He smiled and was on his way. Already the plan was forming in his mind, distracting him from the earlier conversation with the abbot. The families on the coast were in financial distress but if the abbey gave them the money to rebuild, their pride would be injured. (And Grégoire knew enough about pride from his brother)

But then there was his ten thousand pounds, most of which lay at his disposal for the year. The English pound was strong, and only a tiny fraction would cover all of their expenses in rebuilding their homes. The abbey did not know about it; Darcy had advised him to do so in Bavaria and again before he left for Spain and he had seen the wisdom in that. Besides, Benedictines, unlike his previous order, were not averse to dealing with wealth. The only matter was to contact his banker in Madrid and figure out a way to distribute the money anonymously, but by the time he returned to the abbey, he already had some ideas of how to go about that.

Considerably more settled, he sung along with his brothers at Compline and was dismissed. It was eight, and in seven hours he would be woken for morning prayers and another day. He was hot and tired from the day's work and the walk, and in the privacy of his cell, he removed his cowl and robe, and then painfully removed the vest beneath it. He cleaned away the blood, caked in some areas and wet in others, and gave himself the treat of rubbing a lotion over his chest, where the damage from the cilicium was most severe, his back too scarred from previous injuries to be much affected. After the soothing balm set in, he found an easy sleep, at peace with the world around him.

...Next Chapter - Bride and Prejudice

* * *

_The cilicium is a hairshirt, worn by religious Catholics as an act of penance. The most famous wearer of the hairshirt is perhaps the English saint, Thomas Becket. _


	2. Bride and Prejudice

Manner of Devotion

_"Everybody likes to go their own way--to choose their own time and manner of devotion."_

_Jane Austen (1775 - 1817), Mansfield Park_

Catch up on the revision of the series and forums by clicking on the link to my offsite page in my FFnet profile! And buy Pemberley Shades!

**Author's Note** – There are some terms in this chapter and future ones that some may deem offensive by modern sensibilities, but this is pretty much how people viewed and were viewed in this period, so sorry.

* * *

Chapter 2 – Bride and Prejudice

"You see," Mahmud said as his servant fired the rifle, which only emitted a large sound but no bullet, only smoke from the powder exploding. "I cannot make it work. This it does, every time. I am afraid to do it myself. Nizam has burned his hands several times."

Mahmud Ali Khan's English was very good, and by now they were used to the local accent. His trade with the East India Company in Calcutta was in dye, but he was in talks about opening a cotton plant, which the Company promised astronomical returns for, but he said he was hesitant to introduce a new crop to his extensive lands. Somehow he had obtained a Baker's rifle from the local Sepoy Battalion, and was utterly fascinated by it.

"It's the cartridge," Charles Bingley said without hesitation. "Let me show you – when it cools down."

Tea was brought for them, and the three of them – the Mughal lord, the fair-haired tradesman, and the Englishman dressed in Japanese clothing – sat beneath a red umbrella. They overlooked their host's gardens, all neatly arranged into rows of plants neither Bingley nor Brian Maddox could recognize, but seemed more colorful than anything they had in England. Beyond them, not far north but out of their direct sight lay the Ganges. They were trying to purchase tickets for a boat to Agra. Bingley was desperate to see the Taj Mahal, having heard its virtues extolled many times before leaving England. Brian found himself in the more hesitant position when exploring the Indian mainland. All of their stops so far – Bombay, Madras, and Calcutta – had been coastal and sufficiently English. Thoroughly obviously an Orientalist himself, Brian had to weigh his own interest against the fact that he had promised to deliver Bingley safely home, and Brian was not keen on committing seppuku because his cousin had drowned in the sacred river, or had his head bitten off by a tiger (no matter how tame the wrangler said it was), or simply knifed by an insulted shopkeeper because he mispronounced something in Hindustani and insulted the shopkeeper's daughter. The first threat had been on the boat itself, when Bingley burned himself quite badly in one afternoon, his fair hair and skin doing nothing for him, and spent the rest of the trip wearing one of Brian's bowl-shaped _gasa_ hats, at the expense of Bingley's dignity before the crew.

Mr. Bingley had done his best to prepare. Once he had secured his wife's approval for the trip – which was done at a cost he refused to mention – he went to Bath, where the legendary ex-Sepoy Indian Dean Mahomet had a bathhouse, and spent many hours attempting to pronounce languages he had only read in books and never heard spoken. He also hired a drawing instructor. His penmanship was hopeless, but to everyone's surprise, he was quite talented with a charcoal pencil when using his left hand, mainly because there was no ink involved. He was most duteous about sketching all that he saw, as he assumed that life would never bring him round these parts around.

Mr. Maddox, who had already ridden their company's boat once to the Orient with his wife a year prior, focused more on planning the route. They would be gone easily eight months, and the only possible communications would be from the Cape or Bombay back to England. He had never left his wife that long in their entire marriage, but she reassured him that keeping Bingley from getting himself killed was more important, and she would be fine. She was a samurai's wife, so he had no doubt of it.

So far the trip had gone without any life-threatening incidents that had _succeeded_ in taking either of their lives. That was why Brian let them accept the invitation from Mahmud Ali Khan to visit his palace beyond the boundaries of British Calcutta.

Now they sat on pillows as the gun cooled before Bingley, who was familiar enough with guns from his love of the sport end of it, picked it up and demonstrated how to load the powder and the cartridge, just as the servant had done. "Now the key is to make sure the cartridge is all the way in. Sometimes you have to do this –" He set the gun down, took the ramrod in both hands, and shoved it hard into the barrel, "– to get in there." He removed the ramrod, brought the rifle to his right shoulder, and fired high in to the sky.

"Perfect!" Mahmud clapped with delight. He stood up and clasped his hands together. "I am grateful to you, Mr. Bingali."

"It's no trouble," Bingley said, handing the rifle back to him.

"No, let me invite you to my daughter's wedding tonight. Surely you will come?"

Bingley cast a glance at Brian, sitting with one of his swords resting on his right shoulder. Brian only nodded in approval.

With his patented smile, Bingley said, "We'd love to come."

* * *

The male crowd that gathered for the wedding of Khan's second daughter (out of eight) was largely Muslim mughals, the earliest arrivals coming in time for evening prayer. The rest were a spattering of peoples – Afghans, Hindu Brahmins, a few British officers from the nearest base and higher-ranked local Bengal troops. The spoken language was Persian, with a surprising amount of English, and of course Hindustani, Punjabi, and some scattered Arabic, or at least what Bingley was fairly sure was Arabic.

They both had never seen such a display of Oriental pageantry, and they had seen quite a few in the last month. The houses and pavilions were adorned with green branches and bright orange flowers in an elaborate fashion. They passed rows of musicians, and lowered seats, and had been instructed not to speak to the people on the lowered seats beneath them. "Lower class" was a term taken quite literally in India.

The bridegroom was carried in on a palanquin, followed by a train of servants with lit torches, leading him from the house on one end that was his to the place where the bride sat, whom he had never met. Brian had to be careful not to lose Bingley in the crowd of overexcited people thronging to the raised semiana for the ceremony, though it was not terribly hard to keep track a person with red hair in this particular crowd.

The music ceased as the Mulna, the priest, entered and read the ceremony rites, and rings were exchanged, and the couple joined by tying the end of their shawls together. A glass of sugar water was passed to the bride and groom, and then around to the immediate audience of personal friends and family.

"Whatever you do," Brian said, "don't draw this," he said as the dancers entered, in embroidered silks and muslins. In some ways their dress was flowing and modest, not like a tight bodice, but the way they moved did all of the work for them.

"Oh, I promise," Bingley whispered back as they clasped their palms together and bowed to the passing Mulna as he sprinkled perfumed water on both of them.

As the bride and groom were ushered away, the festivities truly began, complete with fireworks that put to shame any of the Regent's proud displays in Town. There was a man who seemed to swallow fire, but did not understand Bingley when he asked how he did it, the language barrier being too much or the entertainer not accustomed to being questioned.

The British were officers who had come because they were paid and maybe would make a fortune. One of them was rather old and retired and worked as a translator. He claimed to have served under General Wellington in his early days as a colonel, when the now-Duke led the outnumbered British forces to storm the fortress of Gawilghur during the Maratha War.

"He could inspire us to do anything," said Mr. Kingston. "Even get ourselves killed. By G-d, he could do it with a single speech. Say, whatever became of that man?"

Brian and Bingley shared a laugh as another guest showed them the proper way to smoke a hookah, not like "you bloody foreigners" – to hold the pipe just right, to not exhale until the precise moment. They watched the man in a turban bigger than the size of his head puff rings through rings and were entranced. The mild feeling of tobacco was the only altering thing there, since their host was religious and did not serve spirits. Instead there were trays and trays of sweet cakes, bananas, fruits, and bread with honey.

"I would still give anything for a good plate of ribs," Brian said in Japanese. Bingley understood it adequately thanks to three months education on the boat, and they used it when they wanted to talk privately.

"I thought you were an Oriental," Bingley said. Brian had not brought a single piece of English clothing in his trunks; he said it was a waste of space.

"An Oriental who would go for a good cow right now," he replied. "But don't translate this to this guy," he said as a man in Hindu dress sat down. He had a bright red Turban and a red dot on his head. He spoke only Hindi.

"The eye that spies," Bingley translated for Brian. "I ... think."

"You mean all-seeing."

"Maybe I do," Bingley said, then returned to his conversation with Shalok. "What? Yes, I have daughters – well, one of them does, the other is blond – No, I will not sell the red-haired one! What, 5000 rupees? No sale. Understand? No sale! Not selling!"

What Brian understood made him fall over sideways with laughter.

* * *

"When did I become the responsible one?" Brian said as they finally made it back to their guest house now well into the morning, when the muezzins were already making their calls for prayer. _Prayer is better than sleep! G-d is Great!_

"After that, my wedding seems like it must have been positively dull for the guests," a sleepy-eyed but still hyperactive Bingley said. He had eaten more sugar that night than perhaps his entire life, so he was still wired. As they entered, he washed his face in the washbasin, scrapping off the red body paint on his forehead. "It was fine for me – I honestly don't remember a thing."

"I remember not understanding anything," Brian said, removing his swords and carefully setting them on the cushions. "It was all in Russian, I think. Orthodox ceremony. And I thought, 'What I would give, to have Danny see me here, wearing a crown and marrying a princess.'"

Bingley lay down on his own bed. He was wearing a silk, orange kurta that he used for both sleep and activity, something he found very convenient. "Darcy was at my wedding, but I don't think he was particularly paying attention to me." He sighed in exhaustion. "Maybe we should do something with flowers and fire-eaters for my daughters instead of a vicar going on and on about marriage and sin."

"I'm sure Mrs. Bingley will take well to that." Brian disappeared behind his screen, so that they were fairly visible to each other, but only if they really looked, and removed his hakama, letting his robe fall down. "And where are you going to get all those tiny flowers?"

"I suppose we'll have to start growing them when we get back. In ten years, they might be ready."

"Ten years?"

"Something tells me Georgie isn't going to be begging me to go Out, much less be eager to marry. Eliza, I don't know, but she's only ten, thank goodness." He paused. "May I ask you a personal question?"

"You may."

"How old is Her Highness?"

"Two and twenty."

Bingley put a hand on his head. It was too early in the morning to be doing these calculations. "So when you were married she was –"

"– young, yes. Certainly not anything objectionable, but I am nearly two decades her senior." He sighed. "I've never been good at planning. In fact, I think my entire life has been one happenstance after another."

"Turned out fairly well anyway."

"Still. It would not have been the safest bet. But then again, I was never any good at betting, which is what got me in trouble in the first place."

Bingley laughed. "You should become a Mohammedian, then. They forbid gambling so you won't be tempted."

"_And_ spirits. No, I would not survive long without a good shot of whiskey, or maybe gin, or beer. The point is - I won't be sitting at the dinner table, drinking milk or something. Like a child."

"I like milk."

"My point exactly."

Bingley threw one of his sashes at Brian, but it didn't make it over the screen.

...Next Chapter - To the Ends of the Earth


	3. To the Ends of the Earth

Manner of Devotion

"_Everybody likes to go their own way--to choose their own time and manner of devotion."_

_Jane Austen, Mansfield Park_

Author's Note: The wedding scene in the previous chapter was largely copied from Dean Mahomet's (1759-1851) description of a Mughal wedding he attended before moving to Britain. If the notions of what consisted a Muslim wedding in India seem outdated to the modern reader, that's because they are.

* * *

Chapter 3 – To the Ends of the Earth 

While Elizabeth Darcy privately held the opinion that of course her son had been the most beautiful male baby in the world, she said otherwise as the newborn flailed his tiny limbs around. "He is perhaps the most adorable boy I've ever seen." It wasn't a complete lie – Viscount Robert Kincaid was indeed a little treasure, still rather pink and often refusing to open his eyes. His hair – what little of it there was – was brown, like his father's.

Lady Georgiana Kincaid (nee Darcy) beamed with motherly pride, as only could be expected, and well-deserved after the nerve-wracking and life-threatening experience that was labor. Despite everyone's fears, all went well, and the baby Kincaid came into the world after just six hours of labor. Within only four days Georgiana was well enough to stand at the christening, with her brother and sister as godparents.

The Darcys had arrived in the last weeks of Georgiana's confinement, children and all. The castle and mansion was not how Elizabeth remembered it – it had been renovated to be more livable and lively, but you could only make a castle so modern. Lord Kincaid was in fine form, in so much as he was good at hiding his nerves, which were mainly expressed fencing with Darcy and Geoffrey, who had recently been allowed to take up the sport and seemed to relish it with his father's old enthusiasm. Between Darcy having to fight on his weak side and Geoffrey's age and experience, Kincaid easily bested them both, but was good enough to make it not seem as so. Darcy was not so determined to see his son a fighter as much as to see the future master of Pemberley engage in all forms of masculine activity, and not be overwhelmed by the influence of having three younger sisters. Fitzwilliam Darcy loved all of his children as much as a father possibly could, but there were moments when they were all in a room together that he felt he could sympathize with Mr. Bennet. And his daughters weren't even near being in their teens yet. He didn't wish imagine it.

Darcy had worried obsessively about Georgiana's state during her entire pregnancy. He had been relieved that she was not with child for the first few years of her marriage, and the earl did not seem to mind in the least. When the day did come, she was now five and twenty, and it was obvious she was ready. Still, he had to steel himself with a full glass of whiskey. Their mother had died giving birth to her. He had little memory of the labor – it was a woman's thing – and was thoroughly confused by this small thing that was supposed to be his sister, though where in the world she came from, the young Master Fitzwilliam could not tell and no one enlightened him. But when his mother took ill the next day, he noticed it. He would have stayed with her, but they kept him well out of the room. He only saw her twice before her death two days later. He had lost his mother and was left with this tiny thing that made noises but did not seem like it would ever be a person. It did not seem like a fair trade. Only his father could assure him that some good had come of it, and as Georgiana grew into his darling sister, he believed him.

But Georgiana did survive, and by all appearances remained in good health as he held his new nephew in his arms. William Kincaid stayed with Georgiana as soon as he was allowed back in the room, even while she slept and he sat awake. It was a happy time for all of them. There was only one person missing.

"Mr. Darcy," Lord Kincaid said to him on the third day, "I've asked for a painter to come and make a small portraiture of Georgiana and Robert for her brother. Do you think he would take it?"

"I think he would love it," he said. "I will send it with my next correspondence, as soon as you say it is prepared. Did you tell Georgiana?"

"Not yet."

"I'm sure she will be glad to hear it."

Grégoire was missed, but he was happy in Spain by all accounts and very busy there, working with the community. If he could arrange it he would escape the hot Spanish summer to England, but it didn't happen every year. Surely, this year he would get permission with the birth of a nephew.

The Darcys stayed for the christening and the next few weeks. Georgiana would not be traveling for some time and was reluctant to have them leave. Elizabeth found herself unaccustomed to being without her sister, especially with Mr. Bingley abroad, but Jane was in London with her children, and the Hursts stayed with her, and of course the Maddoxes were in Town until the Prince left for Brighton. The Bingleys (sans Mr. Bingley) would be traveling to Longbourn for the summer as soon as Georgiana Bingley returned. For whatever reason, Jane had been cajoled into allowing her daughter to accompany Princess Maddox to Ireland for a brief tour of the coast. The Princess had never been without her husband and Georgie without her father, so they stuck together while Mr. Bingley and Mr. Maddox made the business trip to Japan (with a stop in India). Their last correspondence had been from a post office in Johannesburg, to say their ship had rounded Africa's coast safely. Beyond that, correspondence would be unlikely, as it would move no faster than they would.

The adults adjusted to the scattering of the family with the knowledge that it was brief, but the children complained bitterly, so accustomed to one another. Geoffrey was not eager to go to Scotland – he had already lost Georgie and now he would not have Charles, only three younger sisters. Lord Kincaid, whom he had always liked, filled that void to some extent, though Geoffrey remained frustrated that the man he had to spar with was so much taller than him.

"One day, son, you'll grow as tall as your father and you'll be ducking under doorways and bumping your head," his uncle said. "So don't go complain' now. You'll hit it soon enough."

Geoffrey scowled, but his uncle was right. Geoffrey was twelve. His voice had already dropped an octave (even if it didn't _stay_ there all the time) and he had cramps in his legs. He could pick up any one of his sisters, even Anne. But he still couldn't look up at his father and think _this is what I'm going to be someday_. Or, he couldn't believe it when it did strike him.

And then, of course, the question; he knew it was awkward, but he didn't know why. He could just sense it as he held his cousin Robert. "So babies come from stomachs?"

His father's immediate response was stony silence, which was what his father did when he was uncomfortable. His mother's response was to laugh and lean into his father. "Essentially," his father finally said, staring out the window instead of at him. And that was it. That was all he was going to get. Geoffrey looked back down at Robert. If Uncle Bingley was here, he would tell him. Uncle Bingley couldn't keep a secret. When he returned, Geoffrey would ask him.

"What did he say?" Anne asked him immediately when he left the room.

"Nothing."

"He's Papa; what do you expect?"

And so that mystery went unsolved. At least until Uncle Bingley came home.

* * *

"It is a boy," Jane announced to her audience of the Hursts and the Maddoxes. The post came after luncheon, but she held it for dinner. "Robert Kincaid." 

"_Viscount_ Robert Kincaid," Louisa said.

"Perhaps we should give him a few years before he is required to be titled," Dr. Maddox said.

"And at least five before he must attend a ball," said Mr. Hurst, raising his glass of whiskey in a gesture for the newborn.

"Does he favor his mother or his father in appearance?" Caroline asked.

"Lizzy says – he has Lord Kincaid's hair and Georgiana's eyes."

"Is he a lively child?"

"I don't seem to recall any newborns being interested in anything other than eating and sleeping," Dr. Maddox said to his wife.

"I believe she is asking if he is a screamer," Louisa said.

"She doesn't say," was all Jane offered. Even if he was, Lizzy would not write it to be read publicly.

"What you don't want," Caroline said, "is twin screamers."

"Oh _goodness_," Dr. Maddox said. "_Yes_. G-d, yes."

"Unhappy memories, Dr. Maddox?" Mr. Hurst said with a smile.

"I remember leaving for work in the evening with both of them screaming, and then returning in the morning to the same state."

"But you weren't there for the evening!" Caroline said indignantly. "You had somewhere else to be!"

"Oh hush, Caroline," Louisa said. "Whenever you complained about Charles, Mama would remind you that you were the loudest of all of us as an infant."

Caroline Maddox stared down her sister as her husband covered his mouth with his napkin to prevent her seeing his expression. "I don't recall any such nonsense."

"You were four – how would you? But _I_ remember it."

Mr. Hurst burst out laughing, which was a godsend for the rest of the room to have an excuse to do the same as Caroline silently fumed and would not, even after much prodding, own to it.

* * *

"It's so hot out," Georgiana Bingley said, looking up at the sky. "Why is the water so cold?" 

Princess Nadezhda Maddox shook her head. "The ocean is always cold. Don't be a baby." She had already waded in ahead of her niece, holding up her kimono to her knees so her bare feet could soak in the salt water. "What would your father say?"

"That it's not proper for a girl to play in the ocean without a proper bathing costume?"

"Well, good that he's in the Orient, then, and not here to say that," Nadezhda said. Her English was very good, marred only by her Romanian accent. "Now come in. You get used to it."

"My dress will be all messy!"

"Georgiana Bingley!" her aunt said with mock indignation. "When have you _ever_ cared about a dress being dirty?"

Since Georgie could offer no opposition, she stepped out of her sandals and splashed into the water, which went up to her knees much quicker than it did for Nadezhda. "It's rocky."

"Not if you know where to step. Look down. Look how beautiful the water is," Nadezhda said, and Georgie did so. "The first time I ever saw the ocean was in Russia, on the coast. The port was half-frozen and the water was so dark it wasn't blue. It was almost black. Not like this." She kicked at the water, splashing Georgie, who cried out and then laughed. "The second time I saw the ocean from land was when I came to the docks at the filthy Thames. Look how beautiful this is." All around them was green – the rocky coast and the rich shades of green from the Irish fields. It seemed to color the water into an odd and perfect shade of blue.

"Will ye be needin' any'ting else, Yer Highness?" called O'Brien, their coachman. "'sides from the towels and da tea."

"No, thank you."

He doffed his dirty cap and walked off, leaving them alone on the shore. Technically he was their bodyguard, but Nadezhda's sword was intimidation enough, especially when she walked like she knew how to use it, not some aristocrat with a sign of his office. She was a samurai's wife, and she took that as seriously as her husband. No one questioned her odd dress when they heard her accent – how were they to know the difference between an Austrian Princess dressed as an Austrian and an Austrian Princess dressed as a Japanese?

Nadezhda and Georgie eventually tired of standing in the water and played on the shore. Nadezhda set up a branch in the sand as a target and had Georgiana hurl coins. Very few of them hit. "Some did," she said encouragingly, before taking down the makeshift tree with one good flip of the wrist to its lower trunk. Georgie picked up all the coins, large circles with sharpened edges and a hole in the center, and Nadezhda put them back on the string in her pocket. Wet from the splashing of the waves against the rocks and the sea breeze, Nadezhda towed off Georgiana's hair, her own protected by her headdress.

"Can I braid your hair?"

"Tonight," Nadezhda said. "Not now. Someone might come along and see us."

"But they can see _my_ hair."

"You are not married and you are not from Transylvania," her aunt responded. Georgiana had shot up in the past six months, not so much to a normal adult height for a woman but much higher than she had ever been, so Nadezhda did not have to kneel to be at her level. "My hair is for my husband, not other men."

"Did you let him see it before you married him?"

"I did not. He was most curious about it," she said with a smile as they collected their things and made their way back to the path that would take them up to their coach. "If you hide something, it makes people curious. If you show it all the time, they get bored. With men, especially. I cover it and it becomes special, something only for him." _Among other things_, she added silently. "And you. But if your brother asked, I would not let him."

"What about Uncle Maddox?" she said, referring to her proper uncle, the doctor.

"Only if I was wounded there."

"What about Papa?"

"No."

"What about the King of England?"

Nadezhda grinned and looked down at Georgie. "It would never come up, but no. Not even for the King of England. For husband only."

The sun was setting when they returned to their inn. From the room they could see the water and hear the waves. Despite the beauty of it all, Georgie was noticeably melancholy as she watched the skyline turn red and then a deepening blue.

Nadezhda put a hand on her shoulder. "We will be home soon."

Georgie nodded.

"You miss your father?"

She nodded again.

"I miss husband," Nadezhda said, taking Georgiana into her arms. "But they will be home soon."

"Do you think they're okay?"

"I'm sure Brian will take good care of your father."

* * *

"It says what?" Brian said, not having heard the first time over the din of the crowds cheering as the _wushu_ master on the platform defeated yet another opponent by pushing him off the stage. 

Mugen, who could speak Chinese but not read it, had to have it read to him by the man offering the sheet of rice paper. "It is a death contract. In case the challenger dies in the fight, it is legal."

"We've not seen a single person die in one of these fights," Bingley said, his eyes still on the champion.

"We've just been witness to limbs broken and bashed in. Nothing _serious_," Brian said to Bingley.

"I still want to do it."

"Of all the stupid things I've let you do on this trip – "

"I told you, I did not know the word meant prostitute! I thought she was a dancer! How good do you expect my Punjabi to be the first time I hear it spoken?"

"For G-d's sake man, you put your head in a tiger's mouth before I could stop you!"

"The handler said it was safe," Bingley shouted in reply. "And I emerged with my head intact."

"Because I saved you!"

"Arguable. Compared to the other times where you have _definitely_ saved me, that one is up for debate." Bingley turned to Mugen. "Is it safe? The contest?"

"You won't win, Bingley-chan."

"Of course not. I just want to try it."

Brian growled. "Will you please find things to try that don't involve wild animals, compromising situations, or experts in martial combat?"

"Oh, _Brian Maddox_ has never done anything daring or outright insane."

"Not while I was guarding a relative, no." He paused. "Well, yes, but not _this time_."

"I will take care of it," Mugen said, and began to argue with the official in Chinese. Eventually money changed hands and he handed the contract to Bingley. "Sign."

Before Brian could lodge protest, Bingley signed his name and the wushu master, a rather young man with a pleasant disposition for his violent trade, smiled and helped him up into the ring.

"He's just going to knock him around a little," Mugen said, grabbing Brian's kimono to stop him from following his charge, "not hurt him."

"I hope the bribe was big enough," Brian said.

Bingley stepped up on the matted dais. The announcer began to speak to the crowd of men with identical queues, and raised Bingley's arm. "- _Hongmao Guizi!_"

There were boos from the crowd, and a little laughter. Mugen just laughed.

"What'd he call him?"

"Red-furred demon," Mugen answered.

Bingley, clueless as ever, was not put off at all by anything as the announcer raised the hand of the current champion, and the crowd cheered. The champion bowed with a hand gesture that Bingley failed to copy correctly (fist on the wrong side).

"5 dago he lasts more than three seconds," Mugen said.

"You know I don't gamble anymore, Mugen-chan; don't try and tempt me," Brian said, watching as Bingley assumed the pugilistic fighting position, "though it is rather tempting."

Brian would have won the bet. Bingley succeeded in throwing a single punch, which of course was sidestepped by the champion, who grabbed the arm by the wrist and pulled it forward as he kicked his challenger's feet out from under him. Bingley landed on his back as the crowd gave their noisy approval.

"Ow," Bingley said. He looked up, and the champion was offering a hand. "What? We're still going? All right, I'm a sporting man."

"So do you give up?" the challenger said in broken Japanese. He assumed a different but still complex stance as Bingley slowly got to his feet and tried again. And again. After landing on his back three times (the third in a full flip with the champion sliding under him entirely as he did it somehow), he tapped the ground.

"Ow. Okay. Winner," he said in Japanese, pointing to the champion. Smiling in amusement, the master helped Bingley again to his feet and Bingley raised the master and still-champion's hand up. That was about as long as he could manage to stay standing before he collapsed again and Brian and Mugen leapt up to help him off the stage.

"That was ... I think I need – to be ill," Bingley said.

Brian couldn't help but stifle his own smile as the cheering continued. As he helped Bingley to sit down on the stands again, he watched Mugen and the champion exchange some words before Mugen leapt off the dais and rejoined them. The official presented him with a certificate of his defeat, which Bingley probably would have appreciated more if he wasn't vomiting into a porcelain vase.

The day's fights over, the crowd began to disperse as people returned to their businesses. The champion stepped off the dais and approached the three of them, saying something to Mugen.

"He says, he was most interested to fight a foreigner," Mugen said. "He would like to invite us to dinner."

"Of course," Brian said, and bowed to the champion.

"His name is Ji Yuan," Mugen said, and translated their answer in more formal terms to the champion, who took his leave. "You are okay, Bingley-chan?"

"I'm going to be a bit – ow -," he said, trying to stand, "– sore in the morning, but I think so, yes." He squinted. "Do they have, say, doctors in China?"

An hour later, they were back at the inn, where a terrified Bingley was lying with needles in his back, a prospect he found far more intimidating than fighting a wushu master.

"Don't complain; you got yourself into this," Brian said, stepping into the other room. Bingley was bruised, but not harmed, as promised. In the next room, Mugen was drinking whatever the local vintage was. "What did Ki Yun say to you?"

"Ji Yuan," Mugen corrected. "He challenged me."

"And you said no? _To a fight?_" Brian leaned against the doorway. "What is wrong?"

"Nothing," Mugen said. "I did you a favor, you know. You should give me the money."

"What money?"

"The prize money. For winning."

Mugen was being amply compensated for serving as their translator during their visit to Hong Kong and their minor expedition into mainland China, so that was hardly the issue. "You would have won that fight, wouldn't you?"

"He is wushu master here. If I beat him, I take his title, his honor. His students abandon him. He has no reputation until he beats me," Mugen said, taking another swig and launching into his meat dish. "It would have been big trouble for all of us. More trouble than fighting is worth."

"I never thought I would hear you say that," Brian said to his final line. "Thank you, Mugen. But how can you be sure?"

Mugen took a mouthful, swallowed, and followed it with the liquor. "Ah, spicy. His technique was good, and he knows more about the use of chi than his competitors, but he doesn't know how to use that to make him faster." He offered Brian the bottle, but Brian turned it down with a gesture. "I studied wushu for three years in a school in the north. I'm faster; I would beat him."

"Do you think he knows it?"

"Yes."

"Then we do owe you a favor," Brian said. "But before you say it – I am _not_ buying you a prostitute."

Mugen scowled at him and turned away in a huff.

...Next Chapter – The Scholars


	4. The Scholars

Manner of Devotion

"_Everybody likes to go their own way--to choose their own time and manner of devotion."_

_Jane Austen, Mansfield Park_

* * *

Chapter 4 – The Scholars 

Daniel Maddox, licensed physician and surgeon, was not known to take part in the many pleasures offered to him at Carlton House. Even in the often riotous atmosphere of the Prince Regent's grand parties, now almost nightly, he did not socialize with the upper crust and kept his professional veneer intact. He did not sup with the guests even though he was told repeatedly he was welcome to do so, having just come from his own meal in his own home. Around midnight he did partake in a light dinner, which he took on his own in the kitchen, mainly because he preferred to see what he was eating before its formal presentation. While the upper crust of English society drank and feasted and did things that would surely make the _Courier_, he sat quietly with a book or the latest medical review from the Continent. He sat awaiting his usual cue, when the Regent or a fellow reveler would pass out, and he would be called in to resuscitate them. On one occasion, the 6th Duke of Devonshire, quite possibly the richest man in England but for his gambling habit, took a spill in the Chinese-style pagoda and Dr. Maddox put three stitches in his knee, for which the soused duke gave him his diamond-incrusted snuffbox on the spot. Not a fan of snuff and not wanting it around his sons, he had the diamonds removed and made into a necklace for his wife, the silver box paying for the expense. Caroline was on airs for a week, which was the only joy he had from the entire exchange.

Tonight there was nothing. Despite having overeaten, drunken too much, and been liberal with his snuff, the Regent was still on both feet well into the early morning. Dr. Maddox had finished the French Medical Monthly and the Prussian Medical Review, and fell back on the new edition of _Sir Gawain and the Green Knight_. He was sipping tea and enjoying his reading when the servant approached. "His Royal Highness, Prince William, to see you, sir."

"The Duke of Clarence?" he said, but before he could enquire further, the third son of King George and the Prince Regent's brother entered. He rose and bowed quickly. "Your Highness."

"I understand you are my brother's chief physician."

"I am, Your Highness."

When he dared to lift his eyes, he saw the duke eyeing him very skeptically. "Where was your training?"

"Cambridge, sir. And then the Academy in Paris."

"You can _see_ my brother, can you not?"

He could not hold back his smirk. "Yes, Your Highness. I assure you that I can."

"So you are either grossly incompetent or he refuses to take any of your advice. Knowing George, it is the latter."

He bowed. "I will not comment directly on my patient's behavior, but your assumptions may be correct. Unfortunately, every man is master of his own fate."

"Have you ever met my father, Doctor?"

"I have, Your Highness, but only briefly."

"His doctors control his fate entirely, though I suppose it does little good."

"I am not his doctor, sir, and therefore cannot make an assessment."

He huffed. "You are very discreet indeed. I can see why he employs you – that and whatever medical skills you may have." He stepped closer to him. "Please do me the favor of keeping my brother alive. I care not care for the prospect of the throne. It seems the most tedious job in the kingdom."

Never one to interfere with family (especially royal family) squabbles; he merely nodded and said, "I will do my very best, Your Highness."

Without a second glance, the duke turned and took his leave.

* * *

It was well past dawn when Dr. Maddox walked home. He did not live terribly far, the streets were already lit with the morning light, and the carriages were still piled up with people returning to their homes in drunken stupors, so it was quicker to walk. There was a beggar on the corner – a boy with one leg – and he dropped a shilling in the boy's upturned cap before ascending the stairs to his townhouse. The servants were, of course, expecting his arrival. 

"Is my wife by chance awake yet?" he asked as they removed his overcoat. It was still early for a normal person.

"No, Doctor Maddox."

He sighed and headed to his own room, where he threw some water on his face to clean off the London smog before climbing into his clean sheets, and into a dreamless sleep.

When he woke at about two, he was informed that his wife was entertaining friends. He had a tray brought to his study, where the post was already in, but nothing seemed important. Seeing his wife still engaged, he unlocked his laboratory door and checked on his poppy plants. They were lodged next to the window and beneath glass to protect them from Town air, and despite his daily watering; he could not seem to get them to stay alive long enough before withering away. He plucked a leaf from one of them, replaced the case, and put it under his microscope. He was still inspecting it when he heard the door open. The children and most of the servants were not allowed in the laboratory, and he always kept watch on the door when it was unlocked. "Good morning." It was his first smile of the day.

Caroline Maddox kissed him on the cheek. "Good afternoon."

"I know," he said playfully, taking his seat again next to the microscope. "I think I'm going to have another failed crop this year."

"Are these the seeds Brian gave you?"

"Straight from the Orient. Nonetheless, it doesn't seem much good." So far, he was still buying raw opium the traditional way – in a shadier section of East London. "I spoke with a botanist, but he didn't know much about poppy. Or wasn't willing to admit to it." He looked up. "How are the children? I've not seen them today."

"Emily has writing instruction, and Frederick is still fending off the Greek tutor."

"Not everyone likes Greek."

"Or any other challenging subject."

"Well, I wasn't going to say it unprovoked," he said. "He's a boy. If we were at Kirkland he would be out in the woods, enjoying the weather."

"And making trouble."

"It is their primary occupation."

She huffed. "Your sex will protect its own to the very end."

"I would say the same of yours, but I prefer to be polite," he replied, which dissolved her countenance just a little. "I haven't heard a peep from Danny all day. Did you take away his recorder?"

"I had the convenient excuse that you were sleeping."

He smiled, but it was a sad sort of smile as he fumbled with one of the more harmless instruments on the table. "The Prince is set to go to Brighton at the end of the month."

She didn't miss it. "So? You just said Frederick is suffering cabin fever. Brighton will clear that up. And Danny loves playing in the ocean."

He just nodded. This would be their forth summer trailing the Regent to Brighton, all expenses paid, for most of the summer. It had its pleasures. Nonetheless, he paused before saying, "I am thinking about resigning from my post." Before Caroline could whip her head around with her indignant expression and her immediate question, he continued very calmly, "We have the money to do it. Even if the Prince refuses to pay my retirement salary, which he is under some obligation to do, we have enough put away to provide Emily a decent inheritance and all we need do is sell the stock in our brothers' company to afford a manor in the country, if you wanted it. I'll likely have the best patient list in the whole Society. I've already been offered a position at Cambridge."

She softened again. He had been quite interested in the professorship, but had other obvious obligations. "If he even let you resign –"

"I think he would, if I agreed to find a suitable replacement and still occasionally checked up on him."

Now Caroline had reason to pause. "You've considered this."

"I prefer to consider everything I do."

"Is your occupation so terrible?"

His expression probably said enough. "I enjoy my profession. What I do not enjoy is spending hours in a sitting room waiting for my patient to pass out because he did precisely the opposite of what I told him to do for his health. The last person I actually helped was the Duke of Devonshire, and only because the edges of the pagoda were sharpened to look exotic." He frowned. "I sleep most of the day. Frederick obviously needs more instruction but I'm not awake to give it. Danny hates Town life and is off at Kirkland or Brian's estate whenever he can secure my approval. And as ungentlemanly as it may be ..." he said, "I'd rather spend my nights sleeping in _your_ chambers."

"You do make a very convincing argument," she said, kissing his hand – the one with all the fingers. What would have otherwise been a lovely moment was broken by the sound of something shattering. "_Frederick!_"

There was scurrying in the hallway, and Frederick Maddox appeared at the door. "I know what you're thinking, and Danny –"

"Your brother is asleep," Caroline said.

"Nice try," Dr. Maddox added.

Frederick's next plan was apparently to run as fast as he could up the stairs, which was better than his original plan only that it worked for a longer period of time, until Nurse found him hiding in the attic and he spent the rest of the day sitting on a pillow as a result.

* * *

After briefly stopping at Pemberley, the Darcy family headed south to London, where they would spend a month before the real heat set in. There were relatives to visit and business that had been put off for practically the length of Lady Georgiana's confinement. Mary and Joseph Bennet, who rarely left Hertfordshire, were visiting the Gardiners while Jane and her three younger children stayed at Longbourn with Mr. and Mrs. Bennet. They would all gather at Longbourn for Edmund's birthday. Mr. Bennet, never much of a traveler, stayed on his grounds for everything but church now, owing to his extended age. Elizabeth's one regret about moving to Derbyshire was how her father was denied the presence of his favorite two daughters. He wrote often, and they in turn, but that would not fill the gap. Mr. Bennet wrote that he was staying alive merely to confound Mr. Collins (who now had _four_ daughters). 

The Darcy children were eager to be in Town and ecstatic the whole way, which was why they had their own carriage. At last Geoffrey begged admittance into his father's carriage, and with a knowing smile, Darcy agreed. "Why is it that our children never seem to remember how hot, smelly, and dirty Town is? They'll be complaining within a week."

"I want to see George," his son announced. George Wickham, who was turning thirteen the following week, now lived with his sister and mother in an apartment on Gracechurch Street with Lydia's new husband and their infant son. "Do I have tutoring?"

"Of course you do," Darcy said, without taking his eye off his book.

"George doesn't have tutors. Why?"

"Because George teaches himself," Elizabeth said, exchanging a glance with her husband. It was the most polite reason to give. Now out of Longbourn, the Wickham children's formal education was limited. "Did he ask for anything for his birthday?"

Darcy had a semi-regular correspondence with this particular nephew. "He wants a set of Homer in Greek."

"_So_ boring," Geoffrey sat, leaning back against the cushion.

"People have different tastes," Elizabeth said, stoking her son's overgrown hair. He had his father's coloring and his mother's curls. "Uncle Bingley likes to read about foreign countries. Your father likes to read his ledgers."

Darcy gave her a look, to which she just smiled.

* * *

George Wickham (Junior or the Third, depending on one's perspective) sat on his bed next to the window that overlooked the row of lower apartments lining Gracechurch Street. He was lying on his bed, his feet kicked up on the dresser. Having recently outgrown the available cot, he was forced to sleep with his feet sticking out until the new one arrived. Mr. Bradley said it was on order, and would surely be there by his birthday. His mother told him he should ask his uncle for a bed, but fortunately, her new husband thought otherwise. 

He was still trying to make his way through the Divine Comedy - which was confusing enough even with his Latin dictionary handy – when Isabella Wickham burst through the door and slammed it behind her, without knocking, of course. George only turned his head sideways. "What did you do?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, am I to be chastised by _everyone_ in this house? Even _you?_"

"What did you do?" he repeated, his voice not at all stern, but nonetheless serious.

She huffed and sat down on the remaining space of the bed, next to his legs. "It's not my fault that the baby cries every time I pick him up!"

"Did you pick him up upside down again?"

"No, George."

"Did you forget to support his head?"

"No! Of course not. He just cried. There's no reason. He always cries."

"He's a newborn. What do you expect of him?"

"Are you taking Brandon's side?"

He put his book down on his chest. "I cannot take a side with or against an infant, 'tis impossible."

"Mama is so tired," Isabel said, "and she's so cranky when she's tired. Why did she have another baby so soon after Julie?"

"I don't know. I don't think she had much to do with the decision."

"What does that mean?"

"It means I will explain it when you are old enough. Or mother will. G-d, I hope it does not fall on my shoulders to do so."

"_George!_" She tugged at his vest. "Tell me!"

He shook his head. "It is not for people our age. I merely read it in a book."

"Then I'm going to read every book in your room before –"

"– A _French_ book."

Isabella stuck her tongue out at him. "No fair."

"I'm sure there is a time – probably before the wedding – when all good mothers sit down with their daughters and tell them all about how to have a baby."

"And sons? Would Mr. Bradley tell you if you didn't already know because you read it in one of those picture books of ladies?"

"You don't know about those!" he said. "I paid you a sovereign never to mention them again!"

"I know," she giggled. "I just wanted to see you blush."

George picked up his book again, mainly to hide his face.

"Fine, be that way. Will you lend me a shilling?"

He lowered the book again. "Why would I lend you a shilling?"

"Because there's a pretty new ribbon color with Indian dyes and I want to get it and look pretty for your birthday. I know you have the money because you got money for Christmas and you haven't spent a farthing of it. And I'm your little sister and you love me."

He sighed, mainly in defeat. "Why do you need so many ribbons?"

"Why do you need so many books?"

They were surrounded by books. He had overloaded his bookcases and merely started piling them up in neat stacks on the floor in desperation. He could expound on the virtues of learning over the importance of looking pretty, but he knew it would get him nowhere. Instead he reached over to his dresser, opened the top drawer, unlocked the small box inside it, and handed her a shilling.

She kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you."

"The way you could really thank me would be to spend at least a few farthings worth of this on a gift."

"What, like a book?" she said. "I'll do my best." She did always get him something he actually liked, even if it came out of her normally-exhausted spending money to do it. "I'm going out, if anyone asks."

"Do you need me?"

"No, Lucy Gardiner is going to join me. I won't be _unescorted_." Coin in hand, she got up and headed for the door.

"Be careful anyway."

She rolled her eyes. "You worry too much." She left and slammed the door again. One of these days it was going to come right off its hinges and Mr. Bradley would have to repair it.

_There are worse things_, he thought to himself, and returned to Dante.

...Next Chapter - The Infamous George Wickham


	5. The Infamous George Wickham

Manner of Devotion

"_Everybody likes to go their own way--to choose their own time and manner of devotion."_

_Jane Austen, Mansfield Park_

* * *

Chapter 5 – The Infamous George Wickham

"No. Absolutely not."

Dr. Maddox sighed. The refusal was not unexpected. The formal letter of resignation was still in the Regent's hands, fluttering in the wind. Somehow, he had succeeded in getting his patient to walk in the park, but the Prince of Wales was so stricken with gout and extra weight that he only made it to a bench not far from the house. "Your Highness, you know I will eventually retire on account of my –"

"You would be a better doctor blind than half the Society," the Regent said.

"With all due respect, that's a ridiculous proposition. You are underestimating the intelligence of my colleagues in the field, sir."

The Regent put down the letter, squinting in the sunlight. "What's this all about, then?"

"I want to do more charity work. I want to maybe write a paper or two." He frowned. "I want to spend more time with my family."

This gave the Regent pause. "I suppose your current schedule doesn't much suit theirs."

"No, sir, it does not."

"That does not change the fact that I need your medical advice – not that I take much of it," the Regent chuckled. Dr. Maddox said nothing to that. "But when something serious does happen – as you keep so diligently warning me – I will need you." He handed the letter back to the doctor. "However, one of my father's constant lessons, when he was still capable of lecturing us, was the importance of family. And not listening to him – well, you see how that turned out for the house of Hanover."

Again, Dr. Maddox had no comment, and looked at his shoes.

"I will be here another month. Less if I can help it, more if Parliament can help it. You have that time to find a suitable day replacement, but will remain my chief physician and will be expected to respond at a moment's notice when possible and as quickly as you can when not possible if something dire were to occur. You will remain at the same salary, and will be expected to keep in regular touch with the attendant physician – at least once a week correspondence – so that you are apprised of my current condition. You are still forbidden to work in the cholera wards, or any public hospital in London. I won't have you dying on me just yet. Otherwise, you may do as you please."

He bowed. "Thank you, Your Highness." Though he had expected at least some kind of new arrangement, he was still overwhelmed. This was the best he could have hoped for. "Thank you very much, sir."

"I had heard you were offered a position at Cambridge – would you take it?"

"I – I don't know. It depends if my wife and children wish to live there."

"Do you make any decisions for yourself, Dr. Maddox?"

He colored. "I made this one."

The Regent laughed. He was generally a jovial person when not horribly depressed. "If you do decide to take a position at Cambridge or Oxford, let me know immediately."

"Yes sir."

"Go forth, my good man, and do the world some good. I loosen your chains, though I have not broken them," said the Prince, ever a fan for the dramatic. "And if I find you in estrangement from your beloved family, which you hold above your sovereign, I will hang your words from the highest tree, I shall!"

"I will not disappoint you, Your Highness," Dr. Maddox said with a smile.

* * *

The first sound that greeted Dr. Maddox was not the sweet voice of his wife or the laughter of his children. It was the harsh, loud, metallic sound of a recorder note. After his coat and wig were removed, he immediately headed up to the nursery, where he found his three-year-old son sitting angelically on a blanket on the floor. "When I said I wished him to learn something about music," Maddox said to Nurse, "I did not wish him to be quite so enthusiastic." He pulled the recorder right out his son's mouth, and prevented a tantrum by immediately picking him up. "Daniel, I love you very much, and while it is not lessened while you are playing that instrument, I thoroughly suggest you take up a new one."

"_Father_," his son said, squirming in his arms. "I like it."

"Because you enjoy music or because it is loud?"

His son looked up at him, but could either not understand the question or did not know the proper answer.

"I thought so," Dr. Maddox said, kissing him on his head of curly red hair before setting him down. "You can have it back tomorrow, preferably when your mother and I are out."

"Finally, the voice of reason," Caroline said in the doorway. She called for Nurse to put their son down for an afternoon nap and they moved into her chambers. "How was it?"

"I am still to be his well-paid chief physician," he said, "but no longer his nursemaid. I have to hire a new one before he goes to Brighton, but otherwise ..." He trailed off as his wife embraced him. "Not so many wives would be so eager to have their husbands at home all day."

"I was assuming you would be spending it at White's," she said, kissing him on the cheek. "Drinking and gambling and leaving us all well enough alone."

"I am sorry to disappoint," he said. "He was reluctant to relinquish me."

"I assume you were persuasive."

"I said something about wanting to spend time with my children."

"You know how to manipulate a sovereign as well as anyone on the Privy Council."

"Just _that_ sovereign," he clarified, and kissed her. He was not the dashing man of one and thirty that he had been when they were married – if he would have ever considered himself _dashing_ – and he had come home from his trip to Austria with more than a few grey hairs, but Caroline never once complained. She still loved to run her hands through his bushy hair, and he still loved her creamy white skin.

"I invited the Darcys for dinner," she said when she had a moment to breathe.

"They've returned from Scotland?"

"Georgiana had her child, a son."

He nodded. "I know we aren't – _technically_ stressed by my rushing off after dinner, but –" He didn't have to finish the sentence. Some rituals did not have to be altered. Their door remained closed until it was time to dress for dinner.

* * *

The Darcys arrived on time as usual, bringing with them their two eldest. Geoffrey and Frederick got on well despite their age differences, and Emily and Anne were best friends the way only ten-year-old girls could be, which involved a lot of giggling and squealing. In other words, the children entertained each other as the adults sat down for dinner. They toasted the Darcy's newest nephew and Dr. Maddox's semi-retirement.

"No, he is still not permitted to talk about his patient," Caroline said.

"I doubt very much that I know more about His Highness' physical state than half of Town," Dr. Maddox replied.

"Are you to go to Brighton?"

"We are searching for somewhere else to summer," Caroline said.

"Very few people can boast being sick of Brighton," Elizabeth said.

"There were some places in Wales that are very fine in the summer," Darcy added.

"You say that because you went shooting once with Charles," Caroline said. "He was going to buy a house there before we both talked him out of it; too distant from proper society."

"There's always Bath," Elizabeth suggested, "and it has all those positive health qualities." Dr. Maddox merely grumbled at that. Since he rarely grumbled at anything, she added, "Do you have a professional assessment of the healing waters of Bath, Dr. Maddox?"

Before Caroline could lodge an attempt to stop him, Dr. Maddox answered, "If you were in your own home and you bathed while ill in water with another person who had a different illness, would you consider that healthy? Or even sane?"

"You always have to go ruining medical fashion with your logic," Caroline said, to which, she and Elizabeth had a laugh, and the husbands exchanged amused glances.

"I rest my case," said the doctor.

* * *

With no great fanfare, George Wickham turned thirteen. He did receive a larger bed from Mr. Bradley, for which he was very grateful. His mother was consumed by attending to her smaller children, and did not host any kind of family gathering. It was George and Isabella that received visitors who came to drop off gifts. The Gardiners came buy with their children, now of age except for the youngest, Lucy, who was Isabella's closest companion. He was given new clothes – which he desperately needed, having grown nearly six inches in six months – and a pocket watch. Aunt and Uncle Townsend and his grandparents both sent their presents by post – books from Grandfather and handkerchiefs from the Townsends, sewn by Aunt Kitty herself. (Mr. Townsend included a small envelope with two sovereigns for George to use 'as he saw fit.') Aunt Bingley had left her present at the house to be delivered that day.

"How many books are you going to get?" his sister said. "You can't _eat them_."

"You could make furniture from them at this point," Mr. Bradley said, and slapped his stepson on the back.

In the afternoon, the Darcys visited. George had already spent time since their arrival at their townhouse with Geoffrey, who was adept at using him as an excuse to get out of his lessons. George didn't mind; he could count the number of friends he had on his hand, and not use all his fingers.

To his surprise, Aunt Darcy sat with her sister and Mr. Bradley while Uncle Darcy offered to take him out to a club for lunch. He had never been to one before, and Geoffrey rather noticeably expressed his annoyance at not being invited. "Your time will come to eat bad food and watch rich men make fools of themselves," his mother said when he complained.

George didn't mind; he knew Uncle Darcy cared about him more than his father ever had and more than Mr. Bradley ever would, and part of him was now old enough to realize why. He had been six when his father died, and unlike his sister, he remembered him and he remembered the funeral. Uncle Darcy had spent it in an armchair because he was too weak to stand and nearly died of his own injuries. George's mother had never made any kind of secret of how her first husband had died, and how much Uncle Darcy owed them for "killing my husband." Thankfully that died down when she married Mr. Bradley, because it always brought Isabella to tears of disbelief. How could their father have been a bad man? How could Uncle Darcy have killed him in a duel? Unfortunately, George was old enough to remember some details, and the Darcys never denied it, but never looked pleased when she brought it up. Actually, Uncle Darcy always looked horrified, and would unconsciously hide his right hand, which bore the scar from the fight. Young Master George was not very talkative, but he was a good observer.

Despite all the history between them, he saw no reason not to like Uncle Darcy. He liked all of the Darcys, he had decided long ago despite all of the evidence not in their favor. He closed his ears to his mother's complaints, though it made him uneasy to do so. But he swallowed these anxieties with the small amount of whiskey offered to him as he sat down at White's with his favorite uncle.

* * *

Though he still had to return to the Bradley house on Gracechurch Street to reclaim his wife and children, Darcy was relieved that the visit had gone well and Lydia Bradley had been too distracted by her infant to lodge whatever current complaints she had with him. He knew she always applied to her sisters for money (and got it, though in reasonable amounts), but since Wickham's death, she had been relentless about hounding Darcy for money. He felt that his debts had been settled; he had paid for the funeral, and had been more than generous in sitting up trusts for both the Wickham children. His financial penance only went so far. He would not give her access to either of their accounts, explaining over and over again the nature of a _trust fund_ and how it could not be accessed for ten years, but it fell on deaf ears. So he sighed and went back to his old habit of ignoring her.

When she lived at Longbourn, Mr. Bennet provided for her, but to an extent she deemed unsuitable (he had apparently learned the lessons of time). It had been a relief for everyone when she married Mr. Bradley. He was a former colonel who was injured in the battle of Toulouse in 1814, and was discharged with an eye patch, thereby escaping the carnage at Waterloo the following year. Aside from his injury reward and retirement pay, he inherited thirty thousand pounds from his aunt upon her death and quickly sought a bride, and the fact that he did not have to provide an inheritance for Isabella Wickham made the marriage possible. He was a pleasant fellow – not overly bright, but sensible enough to limit his wife's pin money to something manageable. His redeeming qualities were his love for Lydia and desire to support her, and his general concept for the well-being of the Wickham children he inherited with the marriage. While not flawless, he was good enough to be liked by the family as a whole. Lydia did her wifely duty of providing him with two children, one male, in the space of three years, so she must have been inclined to him as well. It was a relief to the family.

That left George and Isabella in a somewhat awkward position. Their financial futures were secure – more secure, in fact, than the rest of their family's – but even if he was a better father, Mr. Bradley was not their father. They would forever be "the Wickham children."

Young George's appearance stunned Darcy; he had shot up like a flower in spring and he looked more like his father every day; he only needed his sides to complete the set but was too young to grow them, and he had his mother's eyes. Fortunately, unlike the rest of the guests, the Darcys had enough tact not to say it. In personality he was pleasant, but quiet, often anxious, and his current stage of rapid changes to his physical form did not aid his social development. He lost his cousin Joseph when he moved out of Longbourn, and Geoffrey and Charles were in Derbyshire most of the year. He was not to go to Eton or Harrow. He would go straight on to University, and then probably the church or higher academia.

Darcy gave him a rare smile in the hopes of being reassuring, but there was only so much one could tell a man of three and ten that he would hear and understand. Instead he employed more neutral conversation over lunch. "How is your sister? Does she enjoy living in Town?"

"Very much," George said, trying to dissect his intimidating steak. "She much prefers it over the countryside, though I think she misses our grandparents and Aunt Townsend. And she's positively sick of being escorted everywhere."

"It is better for her to be sick of it than not have it," he said. "And how do you find Town?"

"I don't go out much," George said. It was rather well-known. "Dr. Maddox took me to a lecture at the Royal College of Physicians."

"Really? What was it about?"

"They were debating the new vaccines. There was a speaker, but at the end they were all shouting over him. Dr. Maddox said it's usually like that. Everyone has their own opinion."

"And Dr. Maddox's opinion?"

"The doctor thought they needed more testing before they could be deemed safe, but he barely said a thing the whole time. He said when he voiced his opinions they were very unpopular, and he didn't appreciate being yelled at for what he thought was a good idea by old fogies, so he would wait until he was a fogy to put forth his ideas."

Darcy smiled. "Dr. Maddox is a brilliant man in many respects. What did _you_ think of it?"

"It was interesting, but I don't know how they do it. I can't stand the thought of performing a surgery. It makes me feel ill."

His uncle chuckled. "If you think you are the only person with such thoughts, you should ask the esteemed Dr. Maddox what he thought of his first surgical lecture at Cambridge. At the very least, ask him how long he made it into the lecture."

For the first time, George smiled. "I will; thank you."

George didn't fence or gamble, so there was little else for him at White's, and they left after dinner, walking back up the lane beside the Thames. It was an early summer day, and it was during the Season, so there was no small amount of girls under white umbrellas going up and down the lanes with their friends, and more than once, Darcy saw George turn his head.

He withered under Darcy's smirk. "I don't like people staring at me."

"I think you were more looking at _them_, young Mr. Wickham," Darcy said. "And do not be too flattering. You are still a boy. Chances are they are looking at me, a rich gentleman, as a more obvious match, and wondering if I am married despite my age. Who knows? I could be a widower."

Despite coloring at Darcy's comment, George still frowned. "I still don't like it."

Darcy stopped. He could see George fidgeting with his hands. "If you think people are staring at you, you are right. Everyone looks at everyone else in Town; it is the only regular activity some of these people get. People look and talk and gossip. It happens to everyone and there's nothing to be done. But unless you are doing something ostentatious, it is mostly harmless." He no longer had to bow down to look George in the eyes. "Do you think those people out there mean you harm?"

"No!" George said. "I mean, yes, all right, maybe sometimes," he stammered. "How do _you_ know what I think?"

"Because I'm your uncle, George," he said, "and I have the same thoughts sometimes. But they're not rational. No one means you harm. Understand?"

George nodded.

"Let's be going," Darcy said, not wanting to linger on the topic that made even him uncomfortable. "I can only leave Elizabeth with your mother for so long before someone is likely to spontaneously combust."

They resumed their pace, walking in silence for a while before George said, "Can I ask you something, Uncle Darcy?"

"You can ask me anything, George."

"How much money is in my trust?"

Darcy glanced at his companion. "Why do you ask?"

"I'm interested." He added, "And my mother asked."

"You have a right to know, I suppose," Darcy said, "but not because Mrs. Bradley wants to know. The money has nothing to do with her."

"But – she is my mother. I should support her if she is in distress."

He had a hard time keeping his voice even. "Your mother is not in any sort of financial distress. Not only does Mr. Bradley support her, as is his moral obligation as her husband, but all of her sisters secretly send her money out of their own pockets except your Aunt Bennet, and they do it so secretly they think their husbands none the wiser. You are old enough to understand that your parents – all three of them – had and have their faults, and your mother's is quite obvious in this situation. However, I put that money away for you, so that _you_ might have standing and a level of comfort when you are of age, and I did the same for your sister so that she will find a decent marriage. When you turn sixteen, you may do with it as you please, but I advise you to regard her pleas more skeptically than you are inclined." He softened his tone. "It's very hard to think that your parents aren't perfect. I believed so until I was nearly five and thirty, when I found out my father was an adulterer and my mother cursed him on her deathbed. It was as shocking then as it would have been when I was a child. But it was true nonetheless, and some good came of it." He looked at George, who seemed to be half-nodding, understanding on some basic level that it might be true. "In answer to your question, I put money away and it did very well, and you will have about sixty thousand pounds, and your sister about forty as an inheritance. Only you or I will be able to touch either of those accounts."

He saw fear, not greed in George's eyes at the sum. In a way, it was comforting to Darcy, because it meant George understood the value of money and that there were responsibilities that came with it. On the other hand, it was a very heavy yoke to lay on an essentially fatherless boy. "You have no obligation to tell your mother, or tell her the truth. Either way, it is not your responsibility yet. There is no need to be concerned now."

George looked up at him, his expression one of wanting to believe him, but not quite being able to do so.

...Next Chapter – The Newlyweds


	6. The Newlyweds

Manner of Devotion

"_Everybody likes to go their own way--to choose their own time and manner of devotion."_

_Jane Austen, Mansfield Park_

**Very Important Author's Note:** Many of you may have noticed that FFnet is having some issues and chapters are showing up and then not showing up an hour later. If you think you are missing out, I fully encourage you to check out my own offsite forums, where I am posting the chapters as well:

laughingman (dot) web (dot) aplus (dot) net / phpbb / index.php

* * *

Chapter 6 – The Newlyweds 

The next week in Town passed quietly for the Darcys. Darcy was buried in financial affairs, and spent a little time at his fencing club. He was frustrated that he had to work with his offhand, his right hand not responsive enough for the subtleties of swordplay, and he no longer had the energy of youth to make up for it, but he was determined to learn, and his coach thought he was most admirable in his attempts. Geoffrey was not old enough for a club, but he would be soon. He loved the sport as much as his father and he looked forward to facing him as a serious opponent.

Upon returning one day from a meeting with a banker, he found Elizabeth waiting for him with more eagerness than usual, a letter in her hands. She was not, however, in tears, so that was a good sign. "What is it?"

"Jane," she said, but he had recognized her sister's handwriting from afar. They moved into the study, the servant shutting the door behind them before Elizabeth started speaking. "She suggests that perhaps I visit Longbourn sooner than we had anticipated going, while you finish your business here. Everyone else is fine, but Mama is rather out of sorts."

"She is ill?"

"No – not precisely. She just – well, Jane is at a loss to describe it, but her habits have changed. She says odd things."

"What does your father say?"

"He actually thinks her temperament has improved, or so he said to Jane – but he also called for a doctor."

"Did he call for Dr. Maddox?"

"Darcy, Dr. Maddox is not our personal doctor, at our beck and call for every minor scrape. You know he's swamped with his own work."

"So Mr. Bennet thinks it is serious enough for a doctor, but not serious enough for Dr. Maddox. That is a good sign, I think." He put his hand around his wife's shoulder, and she leaned into his embrace. "I'm sure if it was very serious, there would be an express letter to everyone. Why don't you go on ahead with the children? I can be finished in a few days and then I will join you." He kissed her on her forehead. "Your mother is not as young as she used to be, but she is not obviously ill or suffering. Go see her, and you will feel better."

She nodded, but stayed in his arms for a long time.

* * *

Dr. Maddox thought it not lacking irony that he sat behind the very same desk at the Royal Society of Medicine where, fifteen years earlier, the man who had just approved his license told him to stick himself in a dark hole and not come out. Brian had ruined their fortune and their reputation sunk with it; the ink wasn't dry on the license certificate before the young Daniel Maddox was not fit to show his face in decent society and carrying around more debts than he could pay. But they couldn't pull his license, and he survived, and here he was, interviewing applicants for the royal service. 

It had been two long weeks. He was a man of high standards when it came to medicine, and he knew the Regent expected nothing less of him. He was not willing to take people based on their reputations; he quizzed them on technique and found them lacking. Some of George III's former doctors applied, and were furious at being turned down by this young upstart. Anyone who mentioned bleeding as a method of treating fever was immediately dropped; the Prince hated being bled and Dr. Maddox had his own prejudices against it, except in certain cases. Also he wasn't going to have the head of England sitting in filthy bathwater at Bath, so those experts were turned away. By the end of the first week, he was starting to think he was being too exacting for the man who would essentially be in charge of resuscitating the Prince after his nightly overindulgences. This man would likely also replace him down the line, when he truly became incapable of working for vision-related reasons.

He began looking through the applications of surgeons with licenses, having been one himself and having a healthy respect for a person willing to get their hands bloody. Most were too young, or blatantly lied about their age before showing up for the interview.

He had the card of a young doctor who had been a surgeon at Waterloo. Many people had made that claim, but he backed it up in writing. He was young, but experienced in field work. His degree was from St. Andrews, a very respectable medical school, and his license was on record.

Dr. Maddox took a fresh cup of tea before sitting down opposite the visibly nervous Dr. Bertrand. The man was young, maybe five and twenty, but not ridiculously so. Something about him was nervous, though, more than he should be. "So, Dr. Bertrand," Maddox said after the formalities, "you treated the wounded at Waterloo. Were you on the field or in the tents?"

"Both, sir."

"I assume you didn't keep track of the numbers. What did you do to fight infection among the wounded?"

It wasn't a normal interview question. Dr. Bertrand hesitated for a moment before answering, "Honey."

"Honey?"

"Yes sir." He went on to explain, "It's a temporary method, but it keeps dirt from the wound."

"Old medieval trick, isn't it?" Dr. Maddox said, trying to contemplate how it would work. It did make sense, however ridiculous. "What were the results?"

"I did not have time to do a general study, but I think the rate of infection was lower. Though ... a few delirious men licked their wounds."

"Gives a whole new meaning to the phase, doesn't it?"

Dr. Bertrand finally smiled. "Yes sir, it does."

Dr. Maddox leaned back. "All right. So you did your surgical studies at St. Andrews." He looked at Bertrand and at his application again. "How is Professor Maurice? Is he still around?"

"He is, sir. I heard him lecture on sutures."

"Yes, I remember him." He added, "He's not a professor at St. Andrews. He's a professor at the Academy in Paris, where I studied."

Bertrand visibly sunk. He had been caught.

"Your parents were French nobility, I assume?"

"Yes sir. I am sorry, sir. I'll go. Please don't tell –"

Dr. Maddox raised his hand. "Now, now, I'm not going to hold your family's history against you. You are applying because of your medical skills and little else. Now please sit down and answer my question."

Dr. Bertrand swallowed, and did so. "My parents had an estate near Toulouse. During the Revolution, they expatriated to England. When I was eighteen, they repatriated because Napoleon had suffered his first defeat and they felt he was on the way out. So I completed my education in France, but I didn't feel at home there. I had been born and raised an Englishman. After the war, I came back."

"We have no prejudices against French doctors here. You are well aware of that. French culture remains, as it has been for centuries, the most fashionable culture there is. So the conclusion I must draw from the falsehoods on your résumé is that you were a surgeon at Waterloo for the other side."

Clearly terrified, Bertrand nodded.

"Well, you'd do best not to mention that if Duke Wellington is ever in the room." He closed the folder with the application and took a sip of his tea. "I assume from your soldier days that you are capable of lifting a grown man and carrying him?"

"Y-Yes, sir."

"Good. I will warn you, the Prince is very fat. Not quite as bovine as the _Courier_ would have you believe, but not terribly far from it. When he falls, he usually breaks whatever is beneath him, and it takes two men to get him up, so you'll need someone else to help you. That is assuming you want the position of babysitting the Crown Prince every night while he drinks his way into oblivion." Before Bertrand could answer, he continued, "There will, of course, be a field test next week. I'll send my card with instructions." He rose, and offered his hand. "And no, I won't say anything. Honey. Why didn't I think of that? Exemplary thinking."

The young doctor shook his hand. "Thank you, sir." He seemed to notice that half a finger was missing, but he said nothing. "Thank you very much."

"The pleasure is all mine," he said, and was not lying.

* * *

One could never go home again. Every time Elizabeth Darcy came to Longbourn, it had undergone some renovation. Mary's inheritance, in Mr. Bennet's possession, was no small sum and on the interest alone they could do as they pleased to make it comfortable. While it was true that it now had fewer occupants than ever, it also hosted more guests who needed the space, so another wing was added. The real question was how Mr. Collins expected to keep it all up when he inherited the estate. He could not sell it, and Joseph Bennet was not legitimate and had no claims to it, but Mr. Bennet dismissed all of these concerns with his staunch refusal to keel over just because they were already making arrangements. 

Mr. Bennet was very old, but in good health, and his pattern of living had not altered much in the many years since his daughters (most of them) married and moved away. He read, he ate, and on occasion went to church. Joseph Bennet was eight, and between his grandfather and mother, he had two very accomplished tutors.

Mrs. Bennet had been sad to see Lydia go when her favorite daughter remarried, and spent much time talking with the Mrs. Phillips and the Lucases, and whoever else was available. With the war over, there were fewer redcoats these days, just men with shabby versions of their old uniforms drinking and making trouble. Otherwise, life in Hertfordshire continued as normal, only thirty miles from London but far away in lifestyle and mood.

"Aunt Darcy!" cried a horde of children, who were the first to greet her carriage. Joseph Bennet, the Bingley twins, and Edmund Bingley came charging out the front doors of Longbourn before the servants could stop them.

"I am glad to still be the object of so easy attention," she laughed as they surrounded her before going to greet their cousins. Then she could finally turn her attention to Jane, who was following her children. "I came as soon as I could. Mr. Darcy will be following in a few days."

"It is not urgent," her sister said. "Though, it is good to see you."

As the children were rounded up, the two sisters walked inside, where Mrs. Bennet was in the sitting room, working on some new embroidery. "Oh, my dear Lizzy! How are you?"

"Very well, Mama," Elizabeth said. "Mr. Darcy will be here in a few days."

"Mr. Darcy! That insufferable man!" Mrs. Bennet said, and then smiled pleasantly. "Jane, where are the children?"

"Outside, Mama."

"And the grandchildren?"

At a loss, Jane said, "Also outside. They will be in soon."

"They shouldn't stay out – the sun will ruin their complexions. You know how Georgiana freckles!" she said. Georgiana was in Ireland, but that didn't matter to her. "I must find Edmund. Edmund!" She shouted, and ran off down the hallway, in the direction of Mr. Bennet's study.

"Edmund?" Elizabeth said, picking up the dropped embroidery circle. The strings seem to be randomly placed, completely ignoring the pattern and becoming a spider web of confusion.

"I know! She's been doing that since I arrived." Jane frowned, and dismissed the servants. "The doctor said she may have had a stroke."

"A stroke! When?"

"We don't know. Sometime after Mary left. It hasn't inhibited her speech or movement, so it was minor, and Papa said he did not notice it for a few days."

"Is there anything that can be done?"

"No, but it won't get worse, unless she has another one. Oh, Lizzy, these things are so unpredictable!" Jane finally unleashed her anxieties on her sister, leaning on her shoulder.

"Now what's this? Unexpected guests?" said Mr. Bennet, announcing his presence in the doorway with a heavy tap of his cane.

"Papa!" Elizabeth said and hugged her father. He was perhaps a little older (and shorter, it seemed) and more wrinkled, but very much alive. "I came as soon as I heard."

"Which is faster than I even discovered it," he said, taking a seat in the armchair. "I admit I did not notice anything amiss until she started calling me by my Christian name. The last time she did that must have been when Kitty was born!" He chuckled. "Well, there's nothing to be done about it. The doctor said it could have been much worse. She doesn't even have memory loss – she just gets confused about names and dates. And you will find her nerves in good working order, perhaps the best they've been in years! So it's not all bad. Positively bizarre, actually."

"Did someone tell her?"

"It would just embarrass her," Jane answered. "Or so the doctor said. We may apply for a second opinion, but there really is little or nothing to be done for a stroke."

"A very minor one, he said," Mr. Bennet added, "Though if I have to hear about Netherfield being let one more time, I may have one myself!"

"_Papa!_" they said together.

He sighed. "It seems the only one who is allowed to joke around here since this happened is Mrs. Bennet herself! I know it gave us all a good scare and still does, but watch carefully – Mrs. Bennet!" He said it loud enough for her to hear.

"There you are!" she said, reentering with the children tugging at her dress. "Where have you been?"

"I've been looking for you, my dear. I assumed you would be in your own sitting room."

"I am so sorry to disappoint. Please forgive me," She leaned over, and kissed him on his head more tenderly than they had ever seen Mrs. Bennet act around her husband, "my darling husband."

"I do my best," he said, "now I believe you are to be besieged by grandchildren if something is not found for them to eat before long."

"Of course." She kissed him again, which he returned, and left. The children who were old enough to bow or curtsey did in passing to their mothers and grandfather.

"You see?" Mr. Bennet said with a sly grin. "It's not _all bad_. If she'd lost her wits entirely she might be wondering why her betrothed is an old man!"

"Papa!" Lizzy said, while both his daughters colored at his inflection.

...Next Chapter – The Protégé


	7. The Protégé

Manner of Devotion

"_Everybody likes to go their own way--to choose their own time and manner of devotion."_

_Jane Austen, Mansfield Park_

Author's Note: Before you say it, that is the way they spelled "Hindu" in 1817._  
_

* * *

Chapter 7 – The Protégé 

When Dr. Andrew Bertrand received the card, the most confounding thing was the instructions. _11 pm, outside the Society house, wear your worst clothing and bring best equipment_.

Not one to question orders, he did precisely that, putting together his oldest, most threadbare outfit short of his field uniform (which would hardly have been appropriate). Fortunately his parents were not around. They had left long ago for the usual tour of evening entertainment. Aging ex-nobility, they lived the life expected of them in Town – that is, well beyond their means. The most fashionable occupation for the rich was being in debt. It also meant he was not likely to inherit anything past his name, so the young ex-Viscount decided to make his own way, and this post would legitimatize his profession in his parent's eyes – just, not as he was dressed now.

He was rather surprised when he applied for the well-sought position that the man making the decisions was no more than perhaps fifty, probably younger. Bertrand expected an old man in a wig who had served the king. Dr. Maddox, when he asked around, had a good reputation but had never published any papers or spent much time at any of the clubs the other doctors frequented, and he never gossiped about his patient, so they knew little of him and cared for him less.

Either way, Maddox seemed a reasonable man to be employed under and the position was no doubt a cushy one, so Dr. Bertrand had no objections and made it to the society right on time. The doors were shut, and the doctor was sitting on a bench, dressed mainly in black, with no hat. "Ready, Dr. Bertrand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Are you by any chance armed?"

"Yes, sir. A small pistol." It was quite foolish to go about London without one these days.

Dr. Maddox stood up. "I always belied in the kindness of strangers. From that axiom I earned most of my scars. Nonetheless I can't bring myself to think of actually using a weapon, so I am glad you brought one," he said, and called for their carriage.

They rode in silence for some time before stopping at the edge of East London, where one wouldn't want to be seen in such a nice carriage. "Wait here," Dr. Maddox told his driver. "Now Dr. Bertrand, I assume you've had all of your vaccinations."

"I have, sir."

"As a royal physician I'm forbidden to enter a cholera ward or a hospital, so you should have no fear of that." He left his walking stick with the carriage and carried only his satchel. He reached into his coat and removed a piece of paper. "I know the street at least. Perhaps not the exact address, but we shall find it. And take off your hat – you look like a man of wealth."

Blushing, Bertrand did so, and left it with the driver as they proceeded up the foul-smelling streets of some of the worst sections of London, well outside Town proper. "Now, whatever I say, you just follow my lead," Dr. Maddox said as they came to a wooden door that was nearly off its hinges. "Here we are." There was no doorknob so he knocked with his fist. "Hello? Mrs. Potter?"

There was some noise before a fat woman in an apron opened the door, holding up a candlestick. "Who is it?"

"You requested a surgeon, for a Mr. Potter," he said. "I am Dr. Maddox and this is Mr. Bertrand."

She looked at them both skeptically. "I can't afford two, much less a doctor."

"The fee is the same, I assure you. Mr. Bertrand is my apprentice."

"A shilling."

"Yes."

She hesitated, then stepped back to let them in. The apartment had maybe three rooms – a kitchen, some kind of sitting room, and a bedroom. The sitting room was outfitted with cots and there were children sleeping on them. When some of them stirred, they were hushed by a stream of curses from their mother as she led the doctors into the bedroom.

Sitting up was a man in a bloodied white shirt, with an old soldier's jacket from the continental war over his shoulders. His beard was brown, his hair filthy, and one of his arms was cut off about halfway up the forearm. "I can' afford two."

"There's no extra charge, Mr. Potter," Dr. Maddox said, bowing to him. "I am Dr. Maddox and this is Mr. Bertrand. Do you mind if we look at your wound?"

"Just make it stop with the gunk, wouldja?"

Dr. Maddox pulled up a chair close to the bed. "Light, please, Mr. Bertrand." Bertrand held up the light as close as possible as Dr. Maddox pushed his glasses up into his hair and looked very closely at the wound. It was an old amputation, probably done hastily on the battlefield. The sewing job was only adequate, and it showed. Parts of his remaining arm were dead or dying slowly. Dr. Maddox covered his mouth with a cloth and probed the wound with a metal tong, and though there was no clear opening, pus seeped out as Mr. Potter cried out. Without flinching, Dr. Maddox let the pus drip into a small tin, and held it up to the light for them both to inspect. "A moment, please, Mr. Potter." He stood up and they walked to the corner of the room. "Your assessment?"

"He wasn't sewn properly in the first place, and whatever happened in the meantime, the limb's dying. It needs to be done properly."

Dr. Maddox nodded. "How much would you amputate?"

"I would try to do it cleanly around the shoulder. I've done that before – I think it looks better at a natural stopping place."

"You've done it before? In the precise place?"

"I almost always went for just under the elbow and sewed it there."

Again, Dr. Maddox nodded. "Get your saw ready. If you don't have one, I do." He put his glasses back over his eyes and turned to Mr. Potter as he opened his bag on the dresser. "I think you know what I'm going to tell you, Mr. Potter."

"Oh G-d in heaven," Potter said. "I just – I don' think I can do that again."

"It will be different this time, I assure you. I'm going to give you something to make it far less painful and we're going to do it cleanly. If you keep the wound clean and have the stitches removed properly, it should heal just fine." He removed several small bottles of powder and began to measure them before pouring them into a small bottle of water, which he closed and then shook the contents. "Do you have any other amputations?"

"No, Doctor."

"Good, good. Have you been bleeding a lot recently?"

"No, just this awful mush."

"Have you been drinking excessively in the last few hours?"

"Just a little gin maybe ... I don't know, an hour ago."

Dr. Maddox poured his mixture onto a large spoon. "Open your mouth. And yes, I know, it tastes very bad. For that I apologize." He gave him two spoonfuls, neither of which Mr. Potter cared for, but put up little protest. "All right, here's some sugar to change the taste." He fed him a spoon of sugar. "Now you may feel a little drowsy – there is no reason to fight it. Tell me, under whom did you serve?"

As Bertrand readied his equipment, he watched Dr. Maddox make conversation with Mr. Potter, who had been a private at Waterloo, shot in the hand, which was gangrenous within a week. He was treated in the tents in France before returning to the mainland. Over the next few minutes, his answers became increasingly slurred to the point where he was incoherent. "It's time," Dr. Maddox said.

Dr. Bertrand was ready. This was slightly different from the battlefield – despite Mr. Potter's screams, as drugs could only have so much worth – it was rather quiet. There was no one around him screaming orders in French, or people running back and forth. Dr. Maddox sat quietly, watching his work while holding Mr. Potter's hand, keeping one finger on his wrist for a pulse. "You're doing well, Mr. Potter," he would occasionally say, even if Potter gave no answer. His voice was remarkably gentle.

Bertrand was used to doing quick work, and even at his leisure it didn't take long to make a clean cut. Stitching it was actually a longer and more complex process, but he managed that in a few minutes.

"Pour this over it," Dr. Maddox said, handing him another vial. "It's not honey, but it will do."

Bertrand smiled. Mr. Potter, meanwhile, had actually fallen asleep, and was snoring. Dr. Maddox wiped his face as Bertrand packed up his items. Mrs. Potter entered as they were tying the final bandages. "I will be back or send my assistant in a week to remove the stitches and check on the patient. Don't give him anything tonight and be liberal with the alcohol tomorrow, but not more than two glasses an hour."

"He's sleepin'!"

"He is drugged. Let him sleep as long as possible – he won't feel very well when he wakes up, but he will live."

She paid him the shilling, and they made their exit. They walked back down the street in a casual stroll. "Sorry for the demotion," Dr. Maddox said, "but she wouldn't have believed _two _doctors were only charging a shilling."

"Why were we only charging a shilling?"

"Because that's the going rate for surgeons, and I have no desire to mess with their market, having been one for many years myself."

"What did you give him to make him so peaceful?"

"A mixture of raw opium and some other ingredients to make it drinkable. With the quality of opium I tend to use, and the amount I gave him, we barely broke even tonight." He handed the coin to Bertrand. "You did most of the work."

"I'll give you this back for that recipe, Dr. Maddox."

The doctor smiled. "Now, now, I don't give it out often. It is highly addictive. You must use it sparingly. But of course, only the best for the Crown."

Ahead, they found the carriage waiting, and began the ride back to the decent part of the city. "I should be available to do the return visit next week. If not, I'll send you a note. This is why I requested a partial retirement, anyway. I wanted to do more charitable work than picking up drunken lords." He shook Bertrand's hand. "Good work, Dr. Bertrand. If you can stand it, you can have the job I just so lovingly described."

"Gladly," Dr. Bertrand replied.

* * *

"Mama!"

Jane stepped out of Longbourn's doors to greet her eldest daughter running towards her. She barely had time to get her arms out before Georgie embraced her mother. She was twelve and growing quickly. Her expression of affection was rare and therefore all the more felt, regardless of how long she had been gone. Georgiana Bingley was not always an easy child to manage, sometimes strangely compliant and other times disobedient to the very end. No one knew quite how she would take to going out – either she would be begging for it or be dragged kicking and screaming into the social sphere. "I missed you too, dear."

As Georgie greeted her Aunt Darcy, Jane turned to Nadezhda Maddox, emerging from the carriage. "Your Highness."

"Mrs. Bingley," Nadezhda said. She was dressed in all her standard Romanian clothing, which was far less revealing than their gowns. "Thank you for letting me take your daughter. It would have been lonely without her."

"I assume she wasn't any trouble."

"None. She is a treasure." She curtseyed to Elizabeth. "Mrs. Darcy."

"Your Highness."

"Would you like to stay a few days?" Jane offered. "All the children will be here tomorrow for Edmund's birthday anyway."

What Nadezhda did with her time without Brian, they did not know. She was not part of the London social circles. She spent time with her Maddox nephews and niece, but the month-long trip to Ireland was really the highlight of her activities. "I would be honored."

* * *

The Maddoxes arrived in due time for Edmund's birthday, which had somehow turned into a regular social gathering in Hertfordshire. Dr. Maddox was quickly grabbed for his expertise despite Mr. Bennet's words against it, and he spoke with Mrs. Bennet for some time before reaching the same conclusion that the original doctor had. 

"She likely had a minor stroke," he said. "She will not get worse. She will probably stay just as she is now."

"Is there anything we can to prevent another one?"

"I'm afraid not, Mrs. Darcy. Cerebral apoplexy is impossible to predict. Though, considering it is likely her brain that is involved, you'd best try not to do something to upset her nerves."

There was nothing in all of their concern that could prevent the former Bennet sisters from breaking out into laughter at that statement. Mr. Bennet stood up, putting aside his glass, and said, "Well, I'd better be off to bed, then. Everything I say and do upsets her nerves. But wait! Every time I disappear it also upsets her because she comes looking for me! So I guess I must sit quietly in her presence and say or do nothing. A precarious position, is it not, Dr. Maddox?"

"Indeed," Dr. Maddox said.

* * *

Edmund Bingley celebrated his first birthday without his father surrounded by his siblings, cousins, and aunt and uncles. Georgiana Bingley had done the same in March. Bingley said that a return before late summer was highly unlikely, but he would try. Jane did her best to hide her melancholia and the others did their best not to observe it and be supportive all the same. 

As the adults sat down for luncheon, Mr. Bennet announced, "I do hope my far-traveling son will return soon, selfish as it may be for me to say it, because I have decided to hold a celebration next month for all of my daughters and their families, and my brothers and sisters. In other words, an army will march on Hertfordshire. We'd best alert the authorities beforehand so they don't become alarmed."

"The occasion, Papa?" Elizabeth asked.

"I am going to attempt to do something I have never done before, and doubt very much I will ever do again. I am going to turn seventy. And do we not love to celebrate round numbers?"

This came as some surprise, as Mr. Bennet was not in the habit of mentioning his age or celebrating his birthday, and none present (aside from maybe Mrs. Bennet) even knew it. Mr. Darcy gladly initiated a toast to the idea.

"Edmund!" Mrs. Bennet said. "That means our anniversary –"

"- shall be almost half a century of me hiding in the study and you talking about 'our girls.'" He paused. "My goodness, now I do feel old."

Their laughter was only broken by the doorbell. Mr. Bennet nodded for a servant to answer it, and that man returned with a package, "For Mrs. Bingley."

The paper around it was worn and dusty, and there were stamps all over it but no return. She tore it open immediately to reveal a top letter over the other material. "It's from Mr. Bingley!" she said. After scanning it, she read the first few lines out loud.

_Dearest Jane,_

_By the time you read this, I will hopefully be speeding home. At the time that I am writing this I am however sitting on a hill overlooking the Ganges, which is a river in India much larger and longer than the Thames. Across from me is a Hindoo temple where they worship a god with the head of an elephant. The sun is setting and it is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, marred only by the fact that my family is not here with me. _

_Enclosed are letters for everyone and gifts for the children. Do apologize for me for missing their birthdays and assure them they'll come around next year at the same time. Mr. Maddox also is reminding me that we have to move now, because it gets terribly buggy here at night and we are going to retreat to behind a screen. He sends his love to everyone. _

_Yours,_

_Charles Bingley_

_P.S. A man tried to buy our daughters for sixteen goats but I refused. I hope you find this to your approval._

It was hard to recall when there had been such a display of joy at the Bennet table as of late. Jane was in tears when she removed the cover letter to reveal an entire sketchbook of drawings, the last being no doubt the scene he had described, complete with tiny figures in the corner that were crudely drawn caricatures of the two of them with "CB" and "BM" written under them. It was passed around with great care, to be inked and colored by a professional when he returned home. The buildings contained on those pages were something out of a fairy tale, with unimaginable shapes and spirals. There were also letters for everyone, including Nadezhda from her husband, and the luncheon was recessed so that the children could be called in.

"Just in time for your birthday," Jane said as she handed Edmund his gift box and kissed him on the cheek, "Like he promised."

Edmund Bingley, now seven, opened his box to reveal a small set of wooden toy soldiers. Unlike his cousins' sets, these soldiers were Indian ones, painted in bright colors and carrying bayonets. He immediately abandoned the adults to start setting them up on the drawing room table. The twins, who had their father home for their birthday, received puzzle boxes made of a strange wood, and spent hours figuring them out.

Georgiana Bingley opened her box to reveal a metal locket set on a chain. It was a tiny glass box contained in a metal case molded like the temples of India in the pictures. She quickly discovered the upper spire could be pushed down like a button of some sort, but it did nothing but click. She was about to set aside the box when she found a note, which she read.

"What does it say?" her mother inquired.

"It says it's magic," Georgie said. "He said the man in the shop made it a charm, and it will only work for me, and only when saying one person's name."

"Whose name?" Elizabeth said.

"Papa says I have to figure it out for myself," Georgie said as her mother helped her get the locket around her neck and the clasp fastened in the back. It was just the right size for her. "Georgiana Bingley," she said, and pushed down. Nothing. "Charles Bingley." Nothing. "Fine. Charles Bingley the Second." Nothing. "Charles Bingley the _Third_." Still nothing. "Jane Bingley." Nothing. "Jane Bennet." People interrupted with suggestions, which varied from "Grandfather Bennet" to "King George the Third" but she cycled through all of them, and her siblings, and aunts and uncles in all their various names. "Her Highness Princess Nadezhda." The box remained unchanged. "Nadi-sama." Still nothing. She leaned against her mother on the couch, clicking away with increasing annoyance.

Geoffrey Darcy, whose birthday was also missed, received a wooden dog that looked just like his, painted the same way and everything. He turned his attention back to his cousin. "Does it have to be proper names? Or is it supposed to be the name of a place?"

She looked at him, then back at the locket. "Geoffrey Darcy." It lit up in a brief array of circling lights of all colors – red, then orange, then pink, then purple and blue – until shutting off after about ten seconds. "Yay! Thank you!" She hugged her cousin, who had no idea what he had done precisely, before running off to show the rest of her family.

Geoffrey turned to his Aunt Bingley, who only said, "I have no idea, either. Your uncle has a rather strange sense of humor."

...Next Chapter: The introduction of the BEST CHARACTER EVER!


	8. Primate Concern

Manner of Devotion

"_Everybody likes to go their own way--to choose their own time and manner of devotion."_

_Jane Austen, Mansfield Park_

* * *

Chapter 8 - Primate Concern

July was pleasantly quiet for Dr. Maddox. The Prince Regent was in Brighton, and for once, he was not. There were no emergencies to call him there, and Dr. Bertrand's letters indicated that their patient was still in his fine, fat form.

The summer was not particularly hot, but bad enough that most of decent society departed with the season to their summer homes and coastal resorts. Daniel and Caroline had the names of a couple of places but had no time to look at any of them, and were due to be in the area for Mr. Bennet's birthday in a few weeks. Nadezhda stayed with them, and on especially hot days they went up to her house just outside London, where at least the air was breathable.

"How come Aunt Maddox can shoot a gun and you can't?" Frederick asked his father, who was sitting in the lawn chair, watching Nadezhda pick off fowl with stunning accuracy.

"I never learned. I don't care much for the sport." He didn't want to add that he also couldn't see that far. "I mend things, not kill them. Most of the time, anyway."

"Then who's going to teach me?"

"Your Uncle Bingley, I suppose. Brian's a terrible shot." He looked over Frederick's shoulder and called out, "Daniel! Stay where I can see you!"

Danny Maddox waved his stick around and came back up the hill. "There are toads by the water. Can I keep one?"

"That wouldn't be very nice to the toad. I don't think it would care for London."

"It's really hot in London. Is that why your plants always die?"

He sighed. "I think so, son."

In the evenings it was cooler, and Town was strangely quiet. Frederick didn't want to be read to anymore, or that was what he said, but sometimes he would sneak in to Emily's room and listen to his father reading to her.

Upon his unofficial retirement, the servants fully expected the master to spend most of his day at a club, but even though he had membership to a few, he went out only to lectures and to see patients, mainly charity cases. He spent most of the time during the day in the laboratory, where the heat and foul air had not succeeded in killing every plant he was growing. The laboratory was of endless interest to his children, mainly because they weren't allowed inside except to look. When he heard the low knock on the door, he called out, "What is it?"

"Can I come in?"

"Not right now." He was mashing up a raw stem of poppy, and his mouth covered with a scarf to prevent accidentally blowing on it. "Later."

"Mama says it's important!"

"One moment and I'll be out."

"She said it's _really_ important."

He spilled the contents into a jar and put the jar and the rest of the root in the bottom drawer, which he locked, and opened the door. "Now what is it –?"

Brian Maddox was holding Emily in his arms. "Your child for your opium."

"That's a tough one. Opium is very expensive these days."

"Papa!"

"I told you your father was capable of joking," Brian said, and set her down to embrace his brother. "Hello, Danny."

"Welcome back," he said. "I hope you brought Bingley."

"He's downstairs."

"I hope he's in one piece."

"One over-excited piece, yes."

He stepped into the hallway, locking the door behind him. "You look good. What kind of trouble have you been into?"

"I was mainly busy keeping my business partner out of it. Ask him about the tiger sometime."

"You know your wife is here?"

"I got an enthusiastic greeting. If you weren't cooped up in that study you'd have heard it."

Downstairs, the Maddox sitting room was in an uproar as servants carried in trunks and Caroline embraced her brother, who apparently had not gone native and was dressed like a decent Englishman.

"Mr. Mugen," Dr. Maddox bowed to his guest. "What a surprise. I never thought you'd be back on this side of the world again."

"I need to be in place –" he said something in Japanese to Nadezhda.

"He says he needs to be somewhere where he's not wanted for any crimes," she said. "And China was apparently _not_ an option. Mugen, what did you do?"

"It's not so much that he committed a crime as that he's being hunted by a group of martial arts students because he defeated their master," Brian said. "And then spit in his face. Which he said he wouldn't do."

Mugen shrugged. "I lie. And give you _plenty_ of warning to run."

"You knew Bingley couldn't run! I had to carry him halfway across –"

"Men! Please!" Bingley said. "I had to put up with this for two months –" He turned to Dr. Maddox and offered his hand. "Doctor."

"Mr. Bingley." Maddox took it. "You look –" Bingley was sunburned, had overgrown hair and the beginnings of a beard, but his eyes were bright. " – like you've been on a boat for a very long time, but otherwise well."

"You as well, minus the boat part. I understand my family is still in Hertfordshire and the Hursts are in their country house."

"Yes. Mr. Bennet is throwing a party in a week or so."

"Terrific. Well, if I could trouble you, I need your medical advice. And no, we didn't pick up any Indian diseases. It's about an animal."

"What? Did you buy one of those talking birds or something?"

"No," he said, "not a bird precisely."

* * *

By time Darcy was done with his final meeting with his steward and the accountant, the post had already come to the townhouse, which he viewed as a good sign. He despised staying alone in London when his family was away, but he had pressing business the night before and it carried over into the next day. He wanted to read his mail and be gone.

The brown envelope from Madrid immediately drew his attention. He rarely corresponded with the banker in charge of receiving Grégoire's yearly income except when actually making sure it went through, which it had in January. As his father before him, Darcy held the keys to the fund set up for Grégoire's welfare. He altered it only by basing it in London instead of France, and lowering the amount to something more manageable for Grégoire, who only gave it to charity anyway. The rest went back to the account to accrue further interest.

He motioned for the servant and had him call back his departing steward with some concern. "I need your advice on something. It seems my brother withdrew some hundred pounds from afar and that money did not make it to the allotted location."

His steward was familiar with the situation. "Who was responsible for the transfer and where was it going?"

"It seems a man was hired to take it to a charitable noblewoman in the area, who would then distribute it to some needy residents. This man has been under the banker's employee for many years and has always been trusted to see the job through."

"And the noblewoman?"

"I don't know." He handed the letter to his steward. "Will you have someone look into this immediately?"

"Yes, sir."

"And give me a minute to pen a letter to my brother, if you'll be sending mail to Spain."

"Of course, sir."

He never was quite ready to assume that Grégoire's mail always was read unopened, even if Grégoire insisted the seal was still intact when he received it. He wrote a quick letter about some family account business being unsettled, and would he please write back, or contact the banker? He had written Grégoire only a few weeks ago, and had little else to say, so he sent it off and told his manservant to prepare to leave for Hertfordshire. He was in fact opening the door when he faced a bowl hat. "Darcy-san."

"Mr. Mugen," he said. "What a surprise. Is this to say Mr. Bingley and Mr. Maddox have arrived?"

"Bingali-san, he go to country soon."

"And you're to be their servant again?" he said, not sure that it would rile Mugen, but sort of hoping that it would.

"Lazy _gaijin_, too slow," Mugen said, bowed, and ran off back down the road, his wooden shoes clacking all the way.

Darcy never trusted Mugen, but had no reason not to believe him now, and followed him to the Maddox townhouse, where there were many trunks in the hallway and a great commotion. The first person he encountered was not Bingley or Maddox, but a very disconcerted Mrs. Maddox, her bonnet off and her normally perfectly-tied hair askew. "Mrs. Maddox." He bowed politely, not commenting on anything.

She stopped only to curtsey. "Mr. Darcy. Excuse me." And then she ran right into the sitting room and shut the door behind her.

"What! He's not that bad, Caroline –"

Darcy could vaguely hear Bingley's voice from up the steps, but it was not Bingley who emerged first. It was a little animal, like a cat but not quite, covered in soap suds. It squeaked, and then without warning, climbed right up his clothing and sat down on his head.

Bingley did catch up, looking a little wet. "Hello Darcy."

"Bingley."

"Sorry about –"

"Bingley, what precisely is on my head?"

"It's a monkey."

Calmly, he said, "A monkey."

"Yes. He won't harm you."

Darcy paused, and then said in the same voice, "Though it has been a great honor to be your companion these many years, I feel that our friendship will come to an abrupt end if you do not get this animal _off my head_."

Bingley did not need to be told twice. "Monkey! _Kinasi!_" The monkey leapt from Darcy's head to Bingley's outstretched arm, where it climbed up onto his shoulder and squawked again or whatever kind of noise monkeys were supposed to make. "I am sorry about that. It seems he doesn't much care to be bathed."

Darcy was going to say something, but Mr. Maddox came barreling down the stairs, towel in hand. "Here you – oh, hello." He bowed. "Mr. Darcy. You have suds in your hair."

"I know," was all he said to that.

Bingley took the towel and wiped off his little monkey, which was not much bigger than his head and brown in color. "Dr. Maddox said we should bathe him. In case he had some bugs in his fur. Have you seen my sister?"

Darcy gestured to the closed double doors of the sitting room.

"You can come out now. Caroline?"

"I am not going near that thing!" she shouted from the other side of the door. "He screamed at me!"

"Well what did you expect him to do? You were screaming at him!"

"Monkey see, monkey do," Mr. Maddox said.

"She doesn't like animals – other than dogs, that is," Bingley said. "Louisa had a cat when we were children. It used to scratch its paws on her dresser."

"And on my leg!" Caroline said. The monkey shook itself out on Bingley's shoulder as Dr. Maddox appeared, followed by his children.

"A monkey is not a cat."

"Has she locked herself in there?" Dr. Maddox said.

"It's not her fault she yelled at it."

"You could have told her you were bringing a primate in the house, Mr. Bingley."

"I told _you_."

"What's a primate?" Emily Maddox asked.

"It's a monkey," her father patiently explained.

A truce was eventually reached; "Monkey" (as that was apparently its name as well) went back in his cage and into the wagon bound for Longbourn, and Caroline Maddox agreed to come out of her fortress.

Darcy still had to make his way to Hertfordshire and Bingley was eager to see his wife and children, so they bid their adieus, stopping for a moment outside before they would depart in their separate carriages.

"It is good to have you home," Darcy admitted. "You didn't do anything insanely idiotic while in the Orient besides buy a monkey in the somewhat misbegotten notion that your wife will accept such a thing in the house?"

"I have spent months practicing my pleading look," Bingley said. "And as for anything else you hear I may have done, please don't believe everything you hear from Brian or Mugen."

"I never do," was his reply.

* * *

It was Mr. Bennet who greeted Mr. Darcy as he stepped out of his carriage. His father-in-law was sitting on a chair in the sun. "Mr. Darcy."

"Mr. Bennet. I do apologize for being late."

"I doubt Lizzy will be no less eager to see you."

"Yes, well, I doubt I will be the main attraction today," Darcy said as Mr. Bingley got out of the carriage.

"Mr. Bennet."

"Mr. Bingley!" Mr. Bennet stood up a bit straighter. "So my wayward son has arrived."

"How are you, Mr. Bennet?"

He shook his hand as firmly as he could. "Busy frustrating Mr. Collins every day. Your wife is uhm ... well frankly I don't know where she is, but I assume at least one of the children will shriek loud enough to get her attention when they see you, which I'm sure will be soon enough – "

"_Papa!_"

" – and there we go," Mr. Bennet finished as Eliza Bingley came running out the front doors, her embroidery cloth and ribbons still in hand.

Bingley picked up his younger daughter, something he was barely still able to do. "You've gotten so tall! You look more like your mother every day." He kissed her cheeks. "Speaking of –"

The quiet did not last very long. Edmund was quick to follow, and then Charles, and finally Georgiana, until he was almost toppled over by all of his children. "I cannot carry you all! Edmund, there's no reason to be pulling on my coat, I don't –" He stopped when he saw his wife, emerging tentatively into the sunlight. "Mrs. Bingley."

She curtseyed. "Mr. Bingley." This formality did not last long, and he pulled her into his arms.

"Jane," he whispered, his eyes tearing. "My beautiful Jane."

"I missed you," she said. "Don't ever go away again."

"I will do my very best," was his reply.

Fortunately only the Darcy family was currently in residence, with everyone else in London or at Netherfield, so Mr. Bingley only had to endure so many reunions with everyone present before he excused himself to get something from his carriage, taking Jane with him.

"I have a surprise," he said. "Well, several, but this one I think will adequately distract the children for a little while."

"Now why ever would you – Oh my G-d." Jane covered her mouth as Bingley uncovered the cage. "Is that thing alive?"

"Of course he is. And he's very tame. Well, relatively, for a monkey." He opened the little door and put out his arm, and the monkey instantly went up to his shoulder. "And he's not dirty or diseased. We bathed him at the Maddox house. My sister would be glad to complain to you about it."

"Charles, you can't be _serious_."

He turned to the simian on his shoulder. "Monkey, what do you think? Am I being serious?" It squeaked in response. "Monkey, shake." The monkey held out its tiny arm. "He just wants to shake your hand."

Jane looked at her husband, then at the monkey, then at her husband again. He did seem to be serious. She held out her fingertips and let the monkey grab them. "He has such tiny hands."

"He likes you. Monkey, do you like Jane?" Bingley said. The monkey howled. "Well, you had better like her, because if you don't get on her good side, you don't get to stay with us."

"Charles –"

He held the monkey in his arms. "Look at him. The children will adore him."

"He's a wild animal."

"He's not _that_ wild. Are you, Monkey?" he said. In response, the monkey squeaked and grabbed his nose. "Ow, ow, that's enough. I told you not to do that –"

Jane finally broke out into laughter, perhaps at the sight of a small monkey trying to capture her husband's nose. "We'll _try_ it."

"A trial basis. I understand." He kissed her. "Thank you. Oh, and you might want to cover your ears."

It was good advice. The children collectively screamed in excitement upon seeing the animal perched on Bingley's shoulder, and it screamed right back at them. It took him a full minute to shush eight children.

"Is that a monkey?"

"What's it's name?"

"Can I pet it?"

"Can we keep it?"

"Does it have to live in a zoo?"

"Can I hold it?"

"Does it bite?"

"Children," he said calmly, with as much authority as Charles Bingley could muster, "this is Monkey. Yes, that is his name. Not very original, but you will remember it. He doesn't bite unless you hurt him, so like any pet or person, you must treat him with respect. That means no tossing him or tugging him or pulling on his tail. You can hold him _one at a time_. Georgiana?" He dealt with the crowd of boos. "She's the oldest."

"Not by much!" said Geoffrey.

Georgiana smiled triumphantly at him as she took the monkey into her arms. One by one, they all met Monkey, though Cassandra and Sarah were frightened of him, and Edmund was too proud to admit that he was, but passed him off rather quickly. The most excited person was perhaps the last person in line, Mr. Bennet. "Now here is something I never thought I would see," he said as the monkey climbed up onto the bald spot on his head and sat down.

"If he gets upset, just let him run up a tree or something and I'll come get him down," he told Elizabeth before disappearing with Jane. Darcy mysteriously did not offer to help with monkey wrangling and disappeared into the library as quickly as he could.

* * *

Jane and Charles found a spot suitably far away from the house, where in fact they could see Oakham Mount, where they used to walk during their engagement. The view had not changed, but they were not interested in the view.

"I missed you," he said between kisses. "I'm sorry I'm a little hairy – and burned. And freckled."

"You're perfect," she said.

They sat together on a large stump, looking out at the wild and content to just sit together with Bingley's arm around his wife's shoulder. "I would regale you with stories, but to be honest, I am completely and utterly exhausted." He chuckled. "What happened while I was gone?"

"Lady Kincaid had a son. His name is Robert."

"It went well?"

"I think so. Mr. Darcy seemed pleased at his sister's good health and Lizzy was ecstatic, of course. They stood as godparents."

"Was Grégoire there?"

"He did not come in time. He should be here in a month or two, maybe. It is not set." She looked up at him. "My mother had a stroke."

"I'm so sorry –"

"It was very minor. Papa said he didn't notice it for a few days."

"Is there anything they can do?"

"No, aside from not saying anything when she says something strange."

He put his other arm around her. "I'm sorry I wasn't here."

"It was only a few weeks ago –"

He kissed her on her forehead. "I'm still sorry."

"We always assumed she would outlive him. Do you suppose it's best if –"

He hushed her. "We don't know the future. All we know is your parents are both alive and relatively well. For now, that is enough."

...Next Chapter - A Long-Expected Party


	9. A Long Expected Party

Manner of Devotion

"_Everybody likes to go their own way--to choose their own time and manner of devotion."_

_Jane Austen, Mansfield Park_

* * *

Chapter 9 - A Long-Expected Party

Mr. Bennet, not known to be a stingy man with his family (almost, at one point, to his own ruin with his youngest daughter), spared no expense and no invitation to anyone whom could claim even the slightest relation. Though Hertfordshire was no Derbyshire, by its own standards this was a grand celebration. Characteristic of Mr. Bennet, he did not host a ball ("My daughters are well-settled, thank you very much"). Instead it was a more general daytime celebration, mainly to accommodate his seventeen grandchildren, his four nieces and nephews, and his four great-nieces.

Aside from planning the menu and the accommodations, Mr. Bennet had one unpleasant duty. With Mrs. Philips' insistence, he sat in gathering with her and Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner about Mrs. Bennet, whose condition remained unchanged. She was still given to periods of confusion, but was hardly an invalid.

"I see no cause for concern," he said to his sister-in-law. "If anyone says anything of note, it will hardly be heard over the screaming army of children to descend upon us."

"I do not want my sister exposed to public denunciation."

"Then perhaps you should have lodged complaint between when my first daughter went out and a month ago," Mr. Bennet said, to which the Gardiners could not help smiling. "Mrs. Philips, with all do respect, my wife has not complained about her wits for almost six weeks now – and I have been counting. I can hardly lock her away for such a crime. Nor am I remotely willing to do so," he said. "If anything, she is to be commended."

The widow Mrs. Philips was overruled by the Gardiners, who agreed with Mr. Bennet, and then by the man in charge, and she silenced herself.

"There is cause for more general concern," Mrs. Gardiner said, and her husband nodded grimly for his sister.

"I am at the moment too happy and foolish to fathom it," he replied. "If this is to be her twilight, then I have decided to enjoy her now and wallow in misery later. After all, putting off important business has always been my proficiency."

* * *

In early August, the mass descended on Hertfordshire. Already the Darcys and the Bingleys were in residence, and everyone delighted in comparing notes about the differing accounts of Mr. Bingley's travels that he gave depending on his level of intoxication at the time. He showered his children and relatives with odd gifts. Though Indian goods had been available in Town for years, it was quite another thing to get it as a gift from a traveler who could say where he got it, how much and how long he bargained, and whose heritage was more insulted by the end of the bargaining before an actual price was affixed. "Apparently I do not care for a lot of shopkeepers' mothers," he said. "And I am a demon-haired dolt."

"That was already known," Darcy said, and was already looking out the window innocently when Bingley turned his head.

Another amusement was the fact that Mrs. Bennet could never seem to grasp the presence of Monkey, and was surprised every time she saw him. "My goodness, there's a wild animal in this house!" Such repeated proclamations did not put her on either side – those who despised the monkey (Darcy) and those who loved him (everyone else). Darcy had found an ally with the arrival of the Bradleys and the Wickhams in Isabella Wickham's cat. Fortunately, Monkey was a better climber and took refuge on the nearest person's head whenever the grey tabby entered the room.

It was on a shooting expedition with Mr. Townsend at Netherfield that Bingley said, "What happened to young Mr. Wickham?"

"The same thing that will happen to Geoffrey soon enough," Darcy replied.

"May I say the obvious?"

"Yes, he does look like his father," Darcy said. "Even more every day, it seems."

Mr. Townsend, who had not known Mr. Wickham senior, replied only, "Looks are not everything. Especially when his father has been described to me as having been dashing. And George is a sensible boy."

"He is," Darcy said, softening Bingley's anxious look. "Very sensible. He is set on Oxford as soon as he can manage it."

"Oxford?"

"Yes," he replied. "Probably for all the reasons we think." Mr. Wickham's alma mater, like Darcy's, had been Cambridge. "Besides the fact that Oxford was his grandfather's University," he said, referring to Mr. Bennet.

Done for the day, they set a time for next week, a day before the party.

"Am I inviting the Maddoxes?" Mr. Townsend asked.

"Only if you want to be eating fowl for months," Darcy said. "That is if you invite Her Highness."

"I wasn't going to say it," Bingley said. "Though, given the celebrations afterward, it might not be a bad idea."

* * *

The Collins family arrived in time for services on Sunday, and for Mrs. Collins to spend time with her parents and her sister, now married to another retired soldier (perhaps England's most popular occupation). Trailing them were their four daughters, who were no doubt loved with the same subtle frustration that Mr. Bennet had loved all his unmarried daughters. Nobody dared to say "The Bennet Curse" in earshot of either of them.

Indeed, the dynamics had changed much since Mr. Collins' last visit to Longbourn, over twelve years prior. He still stood to inherit Longbourn, but whether he would have the finances to keep it up was an unanswered question. If he died without a son, the entail would die with him, and the property would be sold, presumably to Joseph Bennet (who could not inherit because of his illegitimacy). In fact, Mr. Collins' benefactor was none other than Mr. Darcy, master of Rosings, who set his pay. Fortunately Mrs. Darcy and Charlotte Collins remained friends despite the change in fortunes, and Mr. Collins was in no great financial trouble. In fact, he was no longer even obligated to give regular sermons, to the secret relief of everyone in Kent. He spent most of his days gardening.

Mr. Collins had not changed in his desire to please his patron and patroness with a deluge of compliments. Fortunately a plan was quickly discovered to divert this; Mr. Bingley trained Monkey to jump at Mr. Collins whenever the vicar started speaking to Darcy, who thanked Bingley profusely but stopped short of saying he had any other tolerance for that creature.

* * *

Final arrivals included the earl of Fitzwilliam, his wife, and three-year-old son Henry. The Kincaids sent their regrets, but Lady Georgiana could not be expected to travel so far with a newborn. At last the Maddoxes arrived, all four adults and all three children, with one lost Japanese thug in tow. True to Darcy's predictions, Prince and Princess Maddox were happy to join the hunting party, and Her Highness felled what seemed like an entire flock of pigeons. Brian brought a gigantic painted bow and succeeded in hitting many trees and other relatively wide, inanimate objects. His wife was all encouragement. Needless to say, the Bennet feast was not lacking in game meat.

Mr. Bennet was in high spirits, and just about everyone joined him as they sat down to a massive luncheon while their children played outside, in theory under watch by an army of nurses as the adults toasted his good health.

Outside, one adult refused to sit down for a long dinner with a bunch of barbarians, and instead slept off his own meal (which had been considerable) and drink (also considerable) against a tree while the smaller children tugged at his feet. "Mr. Mugen! Mr. Mugen."

"Go 'way," he said, lifting his leg and taking little Cassandra Darcy on a ride as she grabbed his ankle. "Little gaijin."

"Why do you wear sandals?"

"Why do you have tattoos?"

"Can you see like normal people?"

"Can I get a tattoo?"

"Can I see your sword?"

"Do you have a wife?"

"Do Japan people get married?"

"My dad says you're a convict. What does that mean?"

"How old are you?"

"Can you carry me on your back?"

He moaned and opened his eyes to the little children. "Ugh. Children loud. You know what children do in Japan?"

"No!" they collectively shouted.

"Children scrub floors! Like servants! You want be in Japan?"

The children screamed and ran away, or at least the youngest and most gullible did, to be amused by the next (and less cranky) thing. Mugen went back to sleep.

The older children had gathered by the fence, which was as far as they were allowed to go without supervision. Anyone over seven had the air of authority and tried to shoo away their younger cousins.

"So, when Grandfather dies, Mr. Collins gets all of this?" Charles Bingley (the third) asked, gesturing to Longbourn.

"Grandpapa's not going to die!" Anne Darcy cried, clutching her older brother. "Geoffrey, say it's not true!"

Geoffrey sighed and looked to Georgiana Bingley, who just shrugged. "Everybody dies, Anne. Besides, it would be weird if everybody didn't. There would be too many people."

"She's right," Geoffrey said to his sister.

"It's still not fair," Charles said. "Someone should decide who gets Longbourn. It shouldn't just go to Mr. Collins because he's Mr. Collins."

"That is the way it works," said George, who was sitting on the fence. "You shouldn't talk. You get Kirkland."

"Of course I get Kirkland. What do you mean?"

George huffed with authority. "You get Kirkland and Edmund doesn't, because you're older."

"What about Georgie? What if she wanted Kirkland?"

"She can't have it. She's a girl." This earned him a cold stare from Georgiana. "It's just the way the law works."

"You don't know everything, you know," Geoffrey said, in some attempt to soothe Georgiana. "Just because you're older."

"Fine. Look it up. Or ask your father."

"Why can't we make a system where everyone takes what they want?" Charles said.

"Because then we'd be barbarians," George replied, but was ignored.

"Fine!" Geoffrey said. "I'm gonna take Kirkland then because my dad can beat up your dad."

"He cannot!"

"Can to!"

"His arm doesn't even work!"

"His _hand_," Geoffrey corrected. "And your dad doesn't even fence."

"He shoots."

"Stop it!" Anne shouted. "Our dads would never fight. And Dr. Maddox wouldn't fight because he can't see, so if we all had to fight, Mr. Bradley would win. So he gets everything!"

"He has _one eye_," Frederick Maddox said, referring to Mr. Bradley. "My dad has _two,_ and they sort of work, so my dad wins."

"At what? He doesn't fight and he doesn't shoot," Geoffrey said.

"Shut up!" Frederick said, already angry. "He could beat up your dad! He's taller!"

"No he couldn't!"

"Yes he could!"

This quickly devolved into shouting, and eventually, Frederick threw a punch. Not a particularly good one (he was eight), but it didn't even connect before he fell on his back, and Geoffrey Darcy was knocked into the soft grass. Georgiana Bingley had gotten between them and instantaneously taken them both.

"_Stop fighting!_" she said. "Or I'll beat you all up! And then ... I take everything!" She turned to the stunned George. "And don't even say it because I'll throw you over that fence faster than you can finish your sentence!"

"She'll do it ... too," Geoffrey said from the ground.

There was a scared silence, and then finally, clapping.

"Good, good," Mugen said, shambling into the crowd as the boys picked themselves up. He patted Georgie on the head. "Now, children stop fighting. Is no reason. Your parents _all_ weak. Huge wimps. I beat them all, take everything."

"... I told you guys it doesn't work like that," George said with a gulp.

* * *

The long day of feasting, chatting, gossiping, and herding the children (and some of the more inebriated adults) ended with a fiery crescendo of fireworks, supplied by Bingley and Brian Maddox. Mugen insisted that lighting the Chinese rockets would be "no big deal" until one blew up in his face, and he ended up dunking it in the pig trough to cool it. In the end he had only some ashes irritating his eyes to contend with, as it had been a very small rocket, but the rest of them were handled with much care. The children were allowed to stay up for the show, including the final one that vaguely made the shape of a dragon in its red and purple journey to the sky. Slowly they were all put to bed, and the servants dismissed for their own party (as they did certainly deserve one), leaving those adults still awake and aware to quietly enjoy the evening of one very long and memorable day.

"Thank you all for joining me," Mr. Bennet said in a final toast. "I doubt I shall turn seventy again, but with any luck, I will hit another nice round number and still have enough wits to realize it." With that he retired, his tightly held wife by his side.

"Perhaps there will be another Bennet after all," Darcy whispered to Elizabeth, who colored and swatted him.

"What there won't be is another Darcy tonight," she said, kissing him. "I am off to bed."

"I will be there soon enough," he said, holding back his yawn until she was gone. He really was getting older. He looked around; Bingley was asleep in the armchair, with Monkey curled up on his head, having made a bed out of his hair. Dr. and Mrs. Maddox had retired after their children were all put down. Nadezhda was doing some embroidery while Brian stoked the fire.

"Mr. Maddox," he said, approaching him.

"Mr. Darcy," he bowed. "You have the good fortune of being limited in your spirit intake, or you would be already asleep and dreading tomorrow morning like the rest of us."

"This is true," he said. "I heard a rumor from Bingley that you are to the Continent soon."

"Yes, for business. Nady and I are going to France to make a deal with a vendor. And she has never seen Paris. Why do you ask?" Even at his least alertness, Brian Maddox had developed a knack for knowing when something was on the wind.

"Is there any chance you have an interest in visiting Spain, if you are taking your company's ship?"

"It could be arranged," he said in a lowered voice. "What is it?"

"There was some kind of error with the bank in Madrid that supplies my brother with his income. Apparently the money never made it there. I'm not overly concerned about the money and I'm sure it will be sorted out or chalked up to a highway robbery, but I wrote Grégoire about it weeks ago and he hasn't written back."

Brian nodded. "He lives on the coast, doesn't he? Very far north?"

"Yes."

Brian paused, and said to his wife, "Nady, would you like to go to Spain?"

... Next Chapter - A Ghost in the Chapel


	10. Ghost in the Chapel

Manner of Devotion

"_Everybody likes to go their own way--to choose their own time and manner of devotion."_

_Jane Austen, Mansfield Park_

**Author's Note:** Follow the link in my profile to my stories page and the forums, where deleted scenes from the Maddox honeymoon have been posted, along with character avatars. And there's a contest to decide on Monkey's picture!_  
_

* * *

Chapter 10 – Ghost in the Chapel 

Abbot Francesco Chiaramonti was guardian of thirty-two souls in the ancient monastery overlooking the Spanish coast. This particular afternoon, his concerns focused on one of them. Turning away from the window, he looked at the ancient mosaics of the saints – Benedict, Gregory, Peter - as the bishop sat in his chair, perusing the documents the abbot had now nearly memorized. Saint Benedict looked heavenward, a book in his hand, believed to be the Rule he had written for his monks. Peter had his hands outstretched and his head nodding down, with the keys to heaven in golden illumination hanging from his belt. Only Gregory looked straight out, his eyes facing the window, his halo seeming especially bright because it was in the right position for the sun to hit it just right. All of them were serene in their expressions – and yet, how they all had suffered. Beneath the altar in their very sanctuary was a reliquary with a tooth from Peter's head, which by history's count was resting in four different places. How were they so unaffected in death from their experiences in life?

"Where is he now?"

He reacted from being pulled from his reverie as if struck. Maybe he was getting old. "What, Your Excellency?"

"Where is the monk?"

"He is at the threshold of the oratory, of course."

Bishop Fernando Valerano of Oviedo removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. "Does he know all of the charges laid before him?"

"I was not aware of the extent of them when he was excommunicated. The details should be fully explained and he should answer for them."

"Do you think he will answer truthfully?"

"He will, Your Excellency. I have no doubt of that."

"You have great faith in this monk who has disobeyed the Rule and lied to his elders in two different monasteries now."

"This I will not deny," he said. "Nonetheless, if we ask him, he will not lie. Especially now that he has been given time to meditate on his sins."

The bishop did not look so impressed, but the abbot had no way to impress him. Bishop Valerano did not know Brother Grégoire, and probably would have never known him, if not for this.

"Your Excellency," the abbot said, "I do not think this mess will become any less untangled without the aid of the soul in question. I will not rely on stories on the wind."

"Fine." The bishop rose from the abbot's chair, and though he was a much younger man than the abbot, a former archbishop himself, he moved as if he was exhausted. "Then let us hear what your monk has to say for himself."

The bishop walked with his cap and miter, and the monks bowed in reverence and hurried out of his way. They found Brother Grégoire where he was supposed to be, on the stone floor before the oratory, in silent prayer.

"Brother Grégoire," the abbot said as they stood over him. "The charges laid against you should be heard again before your penance is decided."

Because the abbot was old, and somewhat hard of hearing, he had a bench brought for himself and the archbishop.

"As you know, it was made known to us that a noblewoman who shall for these purposes remain nameless was given no less than 200 ducados for the distribution among the poor of this diocese. How we came upon this information is not relevant," the bishop said, and the abbot resisted the urge to cross himself. That poor noblewoman, thinking she was doing only good, happened to mention it in confession to her priest, who then reported it to the bishop. "We now also have the confession of the man who delivered the money, a courier who has been hired before for similar purposes by a banker in Madrid. This we have come to understand was done at your command. Is this true, Brother Grégoire?"

"Yes," Grégoire said, his first word in a day, since he had been sent into temporary excommunication.

"And you are in contact with this banker in Madrid? He is in your employ?"

"He is not in my employ, Your Excellency. He is in the employ of my brother, but he does answer my requests as part of his employment."

"Are you the owner of the money in this account?"

"I am."

"And how much is it?"

Grégoire hesitated. "I d-do not know, precisely. It should be – maybe f-four or five thousand English pounds."

The abbot looked at the bishop, very aware of how his eyes reacted. His mouth must have been watering as he continued, "And this is your savings in Madrid?"

"No, Your Excellency. It is my yearly income."

"For how many years?"

"This year alone, Your Excellency."

"How is that possible?"

"My father, G-d rest his soul, left me a great deal of money in hopes that I would become a gentleman in his stead. When I told him before his death that it was my ambition to enter the church, he insisted that I have savings of my own. When I refused, he closed my access to them. They are sent to me every year whether I want them or not." Grégoire swallowed and continued. "The controller of this account is now my brother, his legitimate son. The account is in London and every year he sends some of the interest to Madrid."

"Did you have similar situations in your previous monasteries?"

"Yes."

"Were the abbots aware of them?"

"In Mon-Claire, where I was only a novice, yes. When I took the cowl in Bavaria, no."

"Why not?"

"My b-brother appealed to me not to."

"Your brother is an Englishman?"

"Yes. Anglican."

"Is he religious?"

Grégoire seemed to weigh his answer. "To the extent within his sphere that he can be, he is, Your Excellency."

"Brother Grégoire," the bishop continued, "are you aware of how much money is in your inheritance in London?"

Grégoire flinched in fear. "Roughly, Your Excellency."

The abbot did not think this was relevant, but he would not raise this issue here. He wanted to see how it affected the bishop.

Of course, the bishop asked, "How much is it?"

"It is – two hundred thousand pounds, Your Excellency."

The abbot sighed for all of them, giving Bishop Valerano his time to drool. Even to a bishop from a noble Spanish family like Valerano or a Roman family like the abbot himself, that was an extensive fortune. When he finally recovered, the bishop said, "Father Abbot, do you have the brother's petition?"

"I do." The only reason he had it ready was because it was necessary to perjure Grégoire; otherwise it remained locked in a box beneath the alter with the rest of the brothers' petitions. He unrolled it. "Brother Grégoire, you do not need to be reminded that this is your petition to join the Brotherhood of Saint Benedict, and your promise to obey the Rule to all of its extent. This includes the chapter about giving all of your worldly possessions to charity upon taking the cowl, or presenting them to the church to do such. In this case, I feel we may consider your said 'income' to be a gift from your brother to you because you have no legal control over it. However, you seem to have forgotten what you wrote here, which is that you would present all gifts to myself for approval and any money would be dispersed by the church, and not by you."

"Yes, Father. I know, Father."

"Your wealth is not your own, and so you testified in Bavaria and again here in Spain, and both times it was not true. Did you fail to understand the Rule, Brother Grégoire?"

"No, Father. I was in error. I should not have done so."

"The Rule is not to be taken lightly, Brother," he said, more insistently.

"I know, Father."

"Did you not trust the church to manage its own wealth and give it appropriately to charity?" the bishop interrupted. "Do you believe the words of a heretic over the Vicar of Christ?"

Each sentence seemed to fall like a blow on the shivering monk before them. "Your Excellency, my brother – he is not a heretic."

"You said yourself he is a member of the Church of England, which denies the supremacy of Rome."

"That is true, and in our eyes, he is. But he does not believe he is, and he is my brother. I will not slander him with such an implication."

"But by doing so you –"

"Your Excellency," Abbot Francesco interrupted. "This – Señor Darcy is not on trial here. His soul is not our concern. I will not ask Brother Grégoire to speak ill of his own family."

Grégoire glanced up with teary eyes only briefly before bowing his head again.

"You will write the banker in Madrid," the bishop said, "and tell him to send the five thousand pounds to the abbot, who will distribute it himself. Then we will discuss the rest of your 'inheritance.'"

"Forgive me, Your Excellency, but I promised my brother I wouldn't."

"You promised him you would not give your money to the church?"

Grégoire could not seem to bring himself to speak. Instead, he only nodded furiously.

"You did not swear an oath," the abbot said, hoping it was not true.

"I did, Father. I am sorry, Father."

"Brother Grégoire, you cannot swear contradictory oaths!"

Grégoire fell on his face, choking back sobs. "Please, Your Excellency, Father Abbot, do not make me choose between my father's wishes and the Holy Father's! Please, have mercy on this horrible sinner!"

The bishop was going to say something, but the abbot was sure he was not going to like it. Besides, this was his charge, and even he did not know the answer to the question before them. "Brother Grégoire," he said, standing up to tower over his monk, "you have sworn falsely, you have deceived the church, and you have disobeyed the Rule in writing and in action, knowing full well what you were doing. However, you have told me previously that you fully wish to repent and I do not doubt it. However, I must instill punishment so that you may see your error as Saint Benedict prescribed. Today, you will return to your cell, and take bread after the rest of your brothers. Your excommunication stands, and you will remain in silence until tomorrow, when you will submit to the discipline of the Rule. Then you shall write your brother, explaining fully the situation, and beg to be relieved of your oath. From there, we shall go forward with the financial matters that remain." He put his hand on Grégoire's head. "Have faith in Christ, who hast forgiven greater sins. You may go."

"Thank you, Father. Your Excellency." He bowed again, and clutching his rosary, scurried off to his cell, passing the brothers that were forbidden to look at him.

The heaviness that had descended upon Abbot Francesco did not lift as they returned to his office, the bishop once again taking his chair and leaving the abbot to stand. "I will call for a doctor. I want him on hand tomorrow."

"What about the funds?"

"You had best forget about them, beyond the five thousand in Madrid. And even there, you are chasing a ghost," the abbot said. "His brother will freeze his assets as soon as he hears of this, if he has not already. The banker in Madrid is an Englishman."

"Who is his brother?"

"Aristocracy, I believe. He owns a lot of land in the north of England." He paced, hoping it would relieve the pain in his heart. It did not. "I have let Brother Grégoire visit him twice since taking the cowl here. He is attached to his English family."

"Even though he is a Frenchman."

"Yes. It seems Grégoire is the child of Señor Darcy senior – his father – and a French maid. She was sent home to have the child, who was named after someone else in the family, presumably. Despite his illegitimacy, Grégoire was acknowledged by both his blood father and his half-brother, the heir to the fortune. He also has a half-sister he is very fond of, now married to a Scottish earl," he said. "Grégoire has admitted to me that his brother and sister tried to persuade him from a life in the church many times, before he took his final vows and after the monastery in Bavaria was dissolved. They begged for him to enter the Church of England, but he refused. He wanted the contemplative life and would settle for nothing else. He has been a pious monk and perhaps the greatest apothecary our monastery has ever seen. He has saved any number of souls with medical knowledge he picked up in England. He is all humility."

"And yet, fantastically rich."

"Yes." The abbot put his hand over his head. "There is that. We cannot ask him to choose between the church and his family. It is a violation of G-d's commandments. Some deal will be reached with the brother and this will all pass."

But something told him it wouldn't.

* * *

"Darcy, you're kicking me." 

That brought him out of his sleep. Or at least, it brought him to more awareness, for he had not been asleep for some time. He had woken in the middle of the night and had not been able to return to rest, and tossed and turned to the point of accidentally kicking his wife. "I am sorry," he mumbled, kissing whatever the nearest available limb was. Apparently, it was her shoulder.

"Are you all right?" Elizabeth said, stroking his cheek.

"Yes. I just – feel restless." He kissed her again. "I'll have a bite of something, perhaps."

"Try not to wake the children."

"Is that all you will say to me?"

"Oh," she said, "and I love you."

He smiled and dressed himself in a robe and slippers before leaving the chambers, armed with a now-lit candlestick. Sometimes he did have nights where he could find no sleep or had a disturbing dream; some Austrian ghosts continued to haunt him, but he usually solved that with a cup of a special concoction of Dr. Maddox's. This was different. Finding himself not hungry, he wandered the halls of Pemberley like a ghost himself. The moon was full and its light shone through the windows of the great hall. He used to walk this way with his dogs; how he missed them.

Somehow he found himself in the chapel. He was rarely there when his brother was not in residence. He considered himself a faithful Christian, but he felt he fulfilled his obligations by weekly church attendance and being a charitable man. The candles for the chapel were not lit, and the cold stone made it a soothing room in the late summer heat. Those old castles of the Middles Ages must have been awfully drafty.

To his surprise, he was not alone. Anne Darcy was sitting on one of the hard wooden pews, wrapped in a blanket. "Anne?"

"Papa!" she shouted with delight, and lifted her arms. He did not pick her up as much as sit down beside her and lift her into his lap, which she was getting a little big for.

"What are you doing awake? Where is Nurse?"

"She's sleeping."

"What are you doing here, then? Why are you not in the nursery?"

"I was talking to somebody."

"You were?" His alarm was rising. "Who?"

"I don't know him. He said he was one of Uncle Grégoire's friends."

"Anne," he said much more seriously. "What did he look like?"

"He had a beard and a funny accent." She whispered. "I think he was a ghost."

"What makes you think that?"

"He said he was _really_ old," she said. "Older than Grandpapa!"

"Did he say his name?"

"No."

"Anne, darling, you know you should not speak to strangers, especially in the middle of the night. What if –" But he didn't want to contemplate it, or frighten his daughter. "Just promise me if you see a stranger in Pemberley, you will tell someone immediately. Promise?"

"Promise." She hugged him. "He was just a ghost."

"And you're not scared of ghosts?"

"He was a _nice_ ghost."

He sighed. She had probably imagined the whole thing, or fallen asleep and dreamt it. "Very well. What did you talk about?"

"Uncle Grégoire."

"Of course. He's Grégoire's friend, is he not? What did he have to say about his good friend?"

"He said he was worried about him." She looked up at her father. "Is he in trouble?"

"I – don't think so," he said. "But I suppose if a ghost said so – well, he might know something we don't."

"Are ghosts smart?"

"I don't know why they would not be as smart as they were when they weren't ghosts, sweetie." He rose, picking her up with him. "Why don't we discuss it with your mother in the morning? Someone is up past her bedtime."

"_Papa!_"

But he would not listen to protest. He carried his daughter with her head resting on his shoulder. By the time he reached the nursery, she was already asleep, and he laid her down on her bed, not disturbing her sleeping younger sisters. Only when he left the nursery did he remember that he left his light in the chapel, and stumbled in the darkness back to his own chambers.

Back in his warm bed, with his wife by his side, he finally closed his eyes, but sleep was slow in coming.

...Next Chapter - The Discipline of Saint Benedict

* * *

_Warning: The next chapter is not for the faint of heart. _


	11. The Discipline of Saint Benedict

Manner of Devotion

"_Everybody likes to go their own way--to choose their own time and manner of devotion."_

_Jane Austen, Mansfield Park_

**Author's Note:** My policy: Update twice a week or when a chapter reaches 5-10 comments. Whichever comes first.

This chapter is rated M for violence and medical gore._  
_

* * *

Chapter 11 - The Discipline of Saint Benedict 

For the rest of his days, all Abbot Francesco Chiaramonti could truly recall of the exact moment he knew something was wrong, was the color red. It stained the floor, dripping down the steps that he ascended.

"Father! We must not touch blood!"

He did not listen to the prior. He knew it was true and he could care less. He did not touch blood – he waded in it, kneeling before Grégoire's collapsed figure. Even the laymen hired for the job (the church did not spill blood) had already stepped back with his flail, sensing something amiss when the bonds holding down the monk came loose and he lost consciousness, his head hitting the stone. The doctor had declared the young and relatively healthy Grégoire good for no less than ten strokes, but he had only made it to three.

"Don't just stand there!" the abbot shouted to the doctor. "Help me!" With his own withered hands he tore apart the bloodied shirt for the ceremony, once white, but no longer. His intention was to get the wounds in view of the doctor, but that was not what happened. The poor cloth came apart to reveal the harsh leather of a hairshirt.

The affect was instantaneous. The monks and even the bishop got to their knees, crossing themselves. "My G-d," Bishop Valerano said, "we've killed a saint."

He would not believe it. He could not believe it. He refused. Instead he reached for a pulse. He did not have the words of adequate praise for Christ when he found one. "Almost, Your Excellency, but not quite. Now we must save one, or we are all damned."

* * *

"Father," said Brother Martin, "please." He held up a change of robes. 

This shook the abbot from his stupor enough to realize it might be prudent to change from his blood-soaked robe. "Thank you," he said quietly.

"The brothers – we have circulated a petition that we might fast for Brother Grégoire's recovery until he is out of danger."

Normally he would be hesitant to have an entire abbey of lethargic, hungry monks, but this time he answered with no hesitation, "Yes, of course."

He stood up from the bench outside Grégoire's cell for the first time since the door had been closed and the doctor set to work and returned to his own, where he changed his robe. The old one would probably have to be discarded. "Forgive me Father, for I have sinned," he said in the darkness before returning to his vigil. The bishop had said nothing, but removed his cap and was pacing nervously.

Finally the door was opened, and the abbot saw himself in, closing the door behind him. Grégoire was on his mattress, asleep or unconscious on his side. He was wearing nothing above his waist and his back was covered in bandages.

The doctor was still cleaning his hands of blood. "Father."

"Doctor. Will he live?"

"I've done all I can, Father. I've sewn him, but his flesh was weak – from the uhm, shirt, I presume." He was clearly out of his element with this, even though he had treated many punished monks. "He lost a lot of blood; probably too much. As soon as he wakes, he should drink something."

The abbot nodded numbly. "How long do you suspect he was wearing the cilicium?"

"I-I do not know, Father. There is no way to tell."

"But – it was not recently."

"No. He has scars from it on his chest. He must have been wearing it for – a year, at least." He whispered, "Father, I beg you, if I had known –"

"We would have suspended the sentence, of course. But we did not know. G-d, I did not know. Brother Grégoire, why did you prescribe your own penance? Why did you not tell me?" He looked at the still monk, and then up at the doctor. "You have my blessing for all of your work, Doctor. We will call you again for the stitches to come out, yes?"

"Yes. In two weeks. There were – a lot of them." He bowed, and excused himself as quickly as possible.

Not ready to face the bishop, his flock, or anyone else, Abbot Francesco knelt beside Grégoire. He knew of the boy's flagellant history, but Grégoire said he stopped that when he became a Benedictine. Apparently, he found a new way to torture his flesh. The abbot watched him breathe taking the young hand in his old, withered one. "What great sin have you done, to deserve this? What are you fortifying yourself against? You are no service to the Holy Spirit as a dead man, my son." He smoothed over the tangled bits of Grégoire's curly brown hair. "I swear if you are good enough to us to survive, I will do everything in my power to protect you – from the bishop, from the church." He bowed his head. "And from yourself."

* * *

When they rose the next morning for Vigils, Prior Pullo, who had the last watch, reported that Grégoire had briefly woken enough to take water and some soup, but had said nothing. Nonetheless there was much rejoicing, and they all broke their fast together, though they ate in silence. 

The abbot was on his way to visit Grégoire's cell after Sext when he was called to inspect gifts for the abbey. He came to the door keep to find baskets of goods – cheeses, milk, fresh fruit and vegetables. "From the villagers," said the doorkeeper. "They've been leaving them all day, for Brother Grégoire."

"Who told them?" he said.

"I don't know, Father. No one's been in or out all day." He shrugged. "Perhaps they suspect something because he's not been visiting the people for the last few days. They might think he is ill or something."

He nodded. "Bring the baskets inside. And if anyone comes to ask, tell them nothing. We do not want idle rumors."

"Of course, Father."

In the evening, Grégoire woke again. The abbot was watching this time. It was obvious the monk was in too much pain to speak, but again they forced him to drink broth, and a bit of the milk from the villagers. They called the doctor again, and he prescribed a mix of items mashed in water for him to drink.

The abbot spent much of his time in the chapel. The weight on his soul pressed down on his chest, making it almost hard to breathe.

"Father." It was Brother Marcus. "I was changing his sheets because they were soaked and –"

"And what?"

The monk held up the white sheet. The blood stains formed a broken cross, but a cross nonetheless. The abbot rose quickly and pulled the sheet away from him. "Say nothing of this."

"But Father –"

"Nothing. No talk of miracles."

"There is _already_ talk of miracles."

"No more talk, then. I forbid it." He put his hand on the shoulder of the confused monk. "Trust me. It is better for Brother Grégoire if he is not spoken of in this manner. No good will come of it."

The monk nodded and left. The abbot went to the cellars, and burned the sheet. "Don't do this to yourself," he said to Grégoire afterwards. "You will bring a whirlwind down on your head." Grégoire had no response; his eyes weren't open. "When you wake, I will tell you everything terrible of this world. You must protect your own soul from it, and not in this manner."

Sadly, there were abbey matters that could not be stalled any longer, and on the third day, he returned to the paperwork and the mundane parts of being the abbot of a large monastery. It was then that the bishop, who had no doubt been plagued by thoughts of his own, intruded.

"I am to report to the Archbishop."

"Please do not," the abbot said. "I beg of you. Let Brother Grégoire speak for himself first."

"He should at least hear."

"There is too much to hear. It is all talk."

"If Grégoire is a saint –"

"I don't want to hear that word!" the abbot shouted. "I have told people not to speak it – why don't they listen to me?"

"Do you believe it?"

He looked away. "It is not the point. If it goes beyond these walls it will go straight to Rome, and Brother Grégoire will never hear the end of it. The church always needs another saint."

"And you think that is a bad thing?"

"You forget, Your Excellency, that I was once Archbishop of Oviedo, and before that, a bishop in Rome. I will not have him sent to the wolves. He is just a young monk who is overzealous in the mortification of the flesh. Besides, it is useless to even speak of sainthood before he's been dead decades, except for political gain." He eyed the bishop. "Do not report to the Archbishop."

"I must."

"Then do not say anything of significance. The investigation is ongoing. That is not a lie."

"I will say as I please, Father _Abbot_."

He went to leave, but the abbot said to his departing back, "I will do everything to protect my charge, even if it means going against you."

"You overstep yourself, Father."

"Perhaps. You are a bishop and a friend of the new Archbishop – who was once a bishop under me. You may do as you please, Your Excellency. And I will do everything I can to save the soul I almost destroyed."

The bishop did not respond as he left. The abbot put his head in his hands and wept, only to be interrupted by Brother Martin storming in without knocking. "Father – he is awake."

* * *

It took all of Abbot Francesco's strength to compose himself to kneel beside the bedding of Brother Grégoire, who was being helped to finish off the last of his daily tonic. 

"You may speak," the abbot said. "The excommunication is lifted. Your penance is more than done, Brother Grégoire."

"Then why do I feel otherwise, Father?"

"That blame lies with us, Brother. How long were you wearing the cilicium?"

Grégoire was not in the most alert of states, and paused before answering. "It must be – three years now, as much as I could stand it."

"And for what sin were you repenting, Brother Grégoire?"

"Violating my oath of celibacy, Father Abbot."

"You only did this once? The time you confessed to me of in Munich?"

Grégoire nodded.

"You confessed and were forgiven." The abbot sighed. "Brother, you have given yourself to G-d, body and soul. It is not for you to decide when you are forgiven. The only thing you are guilty of is not understanding the extent of G-d's Grace. Not something many grapple with, but dangerous nonetheless."

Grégoire closed his eyes and said nothing.

"You are to wear an undershirt until you are _fully_ healed of your wounds. Everything else, we will leave to G-d until you recover. Now rest, Brother."

But Grégoire was already asleep.

* * *

When Grégoire was ready to stand and walk again, there was no lack of offers to help him to the chapel. The abbot and the bishop watched as he uneasily took his first steps out of his cell in a week, one hand on the wall and the other arm being held up by Brother Martin. Whether the monks following him were doing it in brotherhood or in worship was debatable, but he seemed unaware of it. He only gazed at the gifts lined up along the wall in confusion. 

"From the villagers, Brother Grégoire," Prior Pullo explained. "You have been missed."

He nodded, not completely comprehending.

The reading for the day was from the Letters to the Corinthians. The abbot wondered if there was anyone who could not help but be distracted. Grégoire himself was nodding off at various points, and did not break bread with them, already exhausted. The next day he made it to two services, and it seemed as though he was on his way to finally mending. Still he said little unless spoken to, either because he was distracted by pain or addled by his experiences.

"Do you remember anything between your injuries and when I spoke to you days later?" the abbot said in privacy.

"I remember ... an anvil. And fire."

"Brimstone?"

"No. Just fire." He played with his rosary. "Am I still to write to my brother?"

"It will be sorted out in time," the abbot assured him. "There is no need to worry of it now."

"I would like to see the ocean. May I have leave to sit outside?"

"Of course, Brother Grégoire."

The next day the weather was fine, and the brothers helped him venture outside the abbey doors and sat him in a chair overlooking the coast. He was on the other side of the abbey, and therefore not there to hear the procession with the arrival of the Archbishop of Oviedo.

* * *

The Archbishop was a Spanish native and a Dominican, like Bishop Valerano. He had been bishop when the abbot was assigned to the post of Archbishop, a requested transfer from Rome, and had been raised when the abbot requested another transfer to a monastery. The Archbishop still looked to the abbot with some reverence as he listened to all of the facts of the case, repeated to him again, including all that had occurred since the writing of the bishop's letter to him. 

"If all you say is true," he concluded, "then he must go to Rome."

"No," the abbot said. "Please, Your Excellency. He is my charge and I do not believe it best for him."

"Surely a pilgrimage, at least," the bishop suggested.

"He has already made a pilgrimage to Rome, some years ago," the abbot said. "He still wears the cross purchased at St. Peter's Square."

The Archbishop rubbed his chin. "What does the brother think?"

"He is not aware of it. He is not in a condition to comprehend it, I think. His wounds are still very great." The abbot also knew that Grégoire would humbly bow to the authority of the Archbishop. His mind was weakened and confused.

"With respect, Father, I do not come rushing for every monk who disobeys your Rule," the Archbishop said. "Let him come and speak for himself."

_G-d Save him_, the abbot prayed. _I am throwing him to their den_. But still the hierarchy had to be respected, and he requested that Grégoire be retrieved. After some time, the monk entered, his shuffle lopsided.

"Please," the Archbishop said. "Be seated, Brother Grégoire."

Hesitating at first, Grégoire took the wooden seat across from the abbot's chair, in which the Archbishop sat while the others stood.

"Brother Grégoire," the Archbishop began, "upon reviewing your case, we believe it is in your best interest to make a pilgrimage to Rome as soon as you are able, and perhaps be transferred to a monastery in the Papal lands."

Grégoire instinctively looked up at his abbot, who quietly shook his head. "Your ... Your Excellency. I have – already been to Rome."

"Not everyone makes the journey but once. Some people even live there. Like your Father Abbot, before his residency here." The Archbishop continued, "You should consider what is the best interest of your soul, Brother Grégoire. You will consider it for as long as you need to decide. Do you understand?"

"I –" He was struggling to keep his eyes open. "I – Father?"

"Yes?"

Grégoire motioned for him to come over, and whispered in his ear. Alarmed, the abbot put his hand against Grégoire's forehead. "Excuse us, your Excellencies. Brother Grégoire is not well."

"What did he say?" the bishop insisted as the abbot raised Grégoire from his seat.

"He said he needed to be ill, _Your Excellency_," the abbot said. "That is your answer for now. Be satisfied with it."

* * *

The doctor was called as the brothers tried to soothe Grégoire's raging fever with cold cloths. The abbot refused to leave his side, and said his prayers in the cell with Grégoire instead of with the chorus. "I have failed you again, Brother." 

Finally the doctor arrived, and this time the abbot did not leave the room, and saw the extent of the damage himself. The lacing had gone bad, and his wounds were infected, and had to be reopened and sewn all over again. The abbot silently questioned the competency of this local surgeon, but now it was not an issue. There was no one else in the area, and Grégoire could not be moved. When the doctor cut the old lacing, the wounds reopened and blood poured out with a foul stench. Grégoire, fortunately, was unconscious.

_L-rd, how much blood must You take from him?_ The abbot prayed, aiding the doctor with more clean towels and water until he was finished.

"If the fever breaks, he will live," the doctor said. "If it doesn't, he won't." He paused. "Father, you do not look well."

_I am a tormented man_. "I am an old man. Old men do not look well."

"You should rest, Father."

"I will rest when I can find some," he answered.

* * *

Grégoire survived the night, and for that they were all grateful, but his fever did not break. It would occasionally go down and he would have moments of coherency, but otherwise, he was incapacitated. 

Abbot Francesco had not slept at all when he entered his own office to find Bishop Valerano and the Archbishop poring over unfamiliar documents. "What is going on here?"

"Father, it is good to see you. We require your signature."

He took a seat and the scroll was passed to him. He read the Latin in disbelief. "This is a transfer. You expect me to sign this? He is not well enough to stand! He might not live!"

"There are arrangements for his body to be interred in Rome."

"His body will not be interred in Rome!" he shouted, then retreated at his outburst. He was so tired. "When he came to this monastery he said that he wished that his body be returned to England to be buried with his family. Unless he is well enough to testify that he has changed his mind, I will honor his wishes. As for the transfer to Rome, it is hardly time to think about that."

"Do you intend to challenge this?"

He knew a threat when he heard one, however quietly it was spoken. After all, the blood of Roman senators coursed through his veins. "I will challenge it, yes. Apparently you have both forgotten that the broken monk you see before you is not without his own alliances, church _and_ family." He looked up at the bishop. "Yes, I am from _that_ Chiaramonti family."

Bishop Valerano turned to the Archbishop, who nodded. "His brother is the Vicar of Christ." They both crossed themselves.

"I will reassess the situation when Grégoire is well," he said. "If he is well. If he dies, G-d help us all, because I am sure we are all damned for this."

With that, he excused himself, and returned to his vigil beside Brother Grégoire. The other monks had found excuses to abandon their chores and were camped outside the cell. The abbot knelt beside him and kissed Grégoire's hand. "If you are going to work any more miracles, Brother Grégoire, work one for yourself."

There was a knock on the door. "Come."

It was the doorkeeper, Brother Pedro. "Father, there is a couple at the abbey gates."

"Villagers?"

"No, Father. They speak only broken Spanish. It is a man and wife and they are armed."

"Armed?"

"Yes," he said. "They say they are Brother Grégoire's relatives."

...Next Chapter – Grégoire's Cousins


	12. Grégoire’s Cousins

Manner of Devotion

"_Everybody likes to go their own way--to choose their own time and manner of devotion."_

_Jane Austen, Mansfield Park_

**Author's Note:** Here we are as promised. My policy: Update twice a week or when a chapter reaches 5-10 comments. Man, this is gonna strain my poor beta.

The Monkey contest over at my personal forums is down to the finals! Check it out by following the link on my homepage here to my homepage there and then click on "forums."

* * *

Chapter 12 - Grégoire's Cousins 

"My G-d it's hot," Brian said, readjusting his gasa hat as they stood outside the closed gates of the abbey. "And I just came from the Orient."

"You were on the ocean. It was different," Nadezhda said. She was wearing a summer kimono at least, instead of her heavy wool Austrian dress. "Have you ever been inside a monastery?"

"Not an active one, no. There's not many left in the Latin world." He looked up. The gates were at least four stories high. The entrance was actually a small door carved in one of them. "This building must be hundreds of years old and still used for the same purpose." He glanced at the heavy doorknob again. "Do they keep all their guests waiting?"

"Maybe when they show up armed. And with a woman, no less."

"A good, Christian woman."

"If you don't answer to Rome you might as well be a heathen, and worship trees and statues, like Mugen."

"Mugen worships himself."

"Even better," he added, "_Your Highness_."

Still nothing. The doorkeeper was taking his time. "Maybe we should have offered to give up our weapons."

"You can do that, but I am about to bring my wife into a castle of men who probably haven't laid eyes on a woman in decades. I'll be keeping my swords, thank you." He heard a creaking sound on the other side. "Speak of the devils."

"Hush." He smiled for the man who opened the door, and the older man who stepped out. "I am Brian Maddox and this is Her Highness, Princess Nadezhda Maddox," he said in his best Spanish.

"Abbot Francesco Chiaramonti of the Benedictines," said the man, bowing to them. It was not very hard, because he had a bit of a hunch from age. "I am the abbot here. I understand you are to see one of my monks."

"Yes. A Brother Grégoire."

"Yes." He switched to French. "Is this better, Monsieur?"

"Yes, thank you."

"How are you related to Brother Grégoire?"

"To be brief," Brian said, "My sister-in-law is the sister of his brother-in-law. So, we are distant cousins, but Her Highness and I were the ones most willing to travel."

"Have you come ... for a particular reason?"

Brian's smile disappeared. "Should we have?" The abbot was obviously in distress. The doorkeeper was keeping an eye on him as if he were to collapse at any moment. Brian glanced at his wife in silent understanding. "We wish to see Brother Grégoire," he repeated.

"We normally do not permit arms or women within the abbey walls, but ..." he trailed off, as if his own spirit was failing him. "But I see you are tired and thirsty. Please, come in."

They ducked under the door, taking down their wide hats and entering the abbey courtyard. The place smelled of age – of old stones and ancient prayers. There were monks milling about, finding a reason in their curiosity at these strangely-dressed visitors.

"If you would, please," the abbot said, "your weapons. This is sacred ground."

"I was given these blades not to relinquish them so easily," Brian said. "Surely, this is an abbey. I will have no cause to use them."

"I beg of you, please."

Brian turned to Nadezhda and said in Romanian, "What do you think?"

"Don't be a braggart. Give him your katana at least."

"Excuse me," the abbot said in Romanian, to their surprise. "Please. Many people would feel more comfortable if you at least gave up the larger ones, and you will certainly not be attacked."

"You speak my tongue?" Nadezhda said.

He bowed. "I was raised speaking Italian, Latin, and Spanish. It took only a brief summer in Budapest to learn some scope of it. But that was years ago."

Brian pulled the longer blade out of his sash and handed it over to the doorkeeper with both hands on the blade. "I will have cause to be angry, then?"

"It is good you are here," the abbot whispered. "Please wait until you have the entire story to pass judgment."

Nadezhda also handed over her wakizashi. "Show us to our cousin, Father."

The abbot nodded and led the way. Brian kept a hand on his tanto as they walked down the colonnade, past monks scurrying about and baskets of food lined up against the wall like offerings.

"Father."

The abbot bowed to the man with the jeweled ring and church clothing, obviously a bishop of some kind. "Your Excellency," he said in French. "These are the relatives of Brother Grégoire."

'His Excellency' was about to say something, but he could not meet Brian's cold stare, and moved out of the way without a word. The abbot turned at last to a small wooden door, where monks were sitting outside whispering prayers, and unlocked it.

"Father," said a monk in Spanish, rising from his position next to the bedside, wet towel still in hand.

"Leave us," the abbot said, and the monk slipped passed them, allowing them entrance to the cell with only a tiny window in the corner allowing light in. The abbot immediately knelt beside the bed, crossed himself, and took up the towel, dipping it in cold water and putting it on the head of what was recognizably Grégoire.

Brother Grégoire was turned on his side, his eyes closed, his breath heavy and his face covered in sweat despite the light coverings.

Brian moved over the abbot and touched Grégoire's forehead. "How long has he had this fever?"

"Two days now."

"What is he sick with?"

"He has wounds – they are infected."

"Show them to me."

With trembling arms the abbot removed the covering to reveal a torn mess of flesh that had once been the skin of his back, sewn every which way. Much of the flesh was green or a sickly yellow, or covered with dried blood. Nadezhda covered herself with her veil and even Brian had to look away, turning instantly to take his wife's arm in reassurance.

When he could think straight again, he asked, "Did he do this to himself, or did you do it to him?"

"Both, Monsieur."

He could see why the abbot was so insistent on him being disarmed. He had no hesitation in grabbing the old man and picking him up by his cowl. "_You would do this to a wounded man?_ What could he _possibly_ have done?"

"Please – we did not know – we were in error!"

Brian looked to his wife, but she only shrugged. "I am not stopping you, husband."

He allowed himself a mean grin as he continued to throttle the abbot, "You are lucky his brother did not come. You know that? He would strike you so hard you would break without a second thought. Grégoire's wounds are obviously infected. Will he live?"

"With G-d's help, Monsieur, and yours. Please, let me explain."

Brian figured he would have to do it eventually, so he let the abbot down. The old man did not retreat. He held his ground, bowing to him again. "I will tell you everything, from the beginning, if you promise to take him away from here. Please, you will understand."

"Of course we will take him! Grégoire Darcy will not die in some filthy hovel of a cell for any reason, and I have a feeling the infraction was only minor by any standards but your own. Now sit down, Father, and begin this _explanation_."

They prodded Grégoire, but he was not near consciousness, and if he woke, he would probably be in great pain. He needed better medical attention; that much was clear. If he could not survive the journey to England, they would have to take him to a major city and find a good surgeon. Nadezhda took up the duties of trying to cool him down with water on his brow and arms as Brian paced angrily.

"Are you all right, Father?" called a monk through the door.

"Yes, yes," he said. "We are not to be interrupted. Even for the Archbishop, understand?"

"Yes, Father."

The old man sighed the sort of sigh where the years seemed to weigh down on him, pushing the air out of his lungs as he fiddled with his rosary. "Sadly, it all began with an act of charity. How odd, now that I think of it..."

* * *

The tale he told was incredible in its intricacies. It was obvious he was not holding back anything, even private conversations. He was terrified of them both, but also of himself, and his own actions – he said as much. "I would pray I am not damned, but I will settle with the Holy Spirit when Grégoire is safe or safely from this world, whichever it shall be." He crossed himself again. "Forgive me, Your Highness, for I have sinned." He had no good words for himself, or the bishop, or the Archbishop, explaining how they first sought Grégoire's money while the abbot remained more concerned with Grégoire's adherence to the Rule (which, in all fairness, had been violated). The discovery of the hairshirt changed everything – after all, it was the very thing found on the English saint, Thomas Becket, after his murder by the knights of King Henry. Now they were after him, this little shining example of piety, to be paraded around in some horrible political arena beyond his understanding. 

"If we just take him," Brian said, "will they pursue? Our ship is not very far, but we may have to stop in France if Grégoire is too ill to continue."

"They might. Or they may seek claim on his body, if he should die – which is a very real possibility. And they may get it, if they reach him before you reach English soil, or they could sue with the Anglican Church. If he dies now, surely, they will go for beatification within the next few decades, and they will want his remains for that. An English Catholic saint – it would be a triumph for Rome. You must understand, I was a bishop there – I know how they think." He paused. "There is one way I can make sure they cannot pursue, but it is terrible."

Brian had no hesitation. "What do you want done?"

"No, nothing you can do. Brother Grégoire's soul is my charge upon his entrance to this order. I have the power to excommunicate him. The bishops will not touch him then."

"_Excommunicate?_ Doesn't that involve a Papal bull? And damning his soul to eternal hellfire and all that?"

"No, this is excommunication from his order. He is removed from the order of Saint Benedict, and all other monastic orders, and the priesthood. He can seek reentrance at a later date, but only with my permission. His soul is not imperiled – he is not damned. I am casting him out to save his life."

Brian did not know what to think. It was Nadezhda who spoke up. "It will break his heart. He loves the church."

"The church does not love him back," the abbot said. "If he stays, it will kill him – body or soul, I know not which. Yes, it will be hard on him. For a while, it will be impossible for him to understand. He may join the Anglican Church if he wishes, but I doubt he will. He may attend Mass and he may have his confession heard. He can have a life – and more importantly, he can live." He was near the point of tears. "I will write a letter to him – apologizing and explaining all of this. I hope it will be some small consolation."

Brian sighed. It seemed the only way; Grégoire's life or his spirit? It would be broken by this. "What about you?"

"I will face my demons on my own. I made a vow to protect Grégoire from everyone, and I will endure whatever I must to do so. At most, they will remove me from my position, but they cannot excommunicate me. Not with my brother on the throne of St. Peter." He was not surprised by their looks. "Yes, my brother is Pope. But he is not the only person in Rome, and I have not contacted him about this. This is my doing and I will attempt to mend it best I can. And maybe someday, even if G-d will not forgive me, Grégoire will."

"I would say, maybe we should wait for Grégoire to agree to it," Brian said, "but I do not believe we have that time, do we?"

The abbot shook his head.

"Write the bill, and the letter, but don't sign until we're ready to leave. If Grégoire wakes in that time, we will tell him."

The abbot nodded.

"Hang on, Grégoire," Brian said, taking his hand. "Your brother will kill me if you don't."

* * *

As the light receded from the Spanish coast, Abbot Francesco was so consumed in his writing that he at first did not hear the knock on his door. "Come." 

Not unexpectedly, it was the Archbishop and the bishop flanking him. "There are rumors, Father."

"There are always rumors," he said calmly, looking at them over his spectacles. "This is a monastery. We have little else to do."

"Brother Grégoire's relatives intend to take him with them. Did you explain they cannot do that without your permission?"

"I imagine they could do that without anyone's permission – physically, at least. And since they do not answer to me or Rome, they will do as they please." He added, "If and when they go, they will have my permission." He held up the finished parchment. "All it needs is my signature."

The Archbishop read it quickly. "You cannot be serious. You would condemn him for what?"

"It does not matter. I am abbot and it is in my judgment that one of the monks here is not suitable to the monastery. I must let him go, lest one wolf consume the sheep. I am not required to state my reasons, though you are welcome to speculate as to what they are."

"If you do this," the Archbishop said, "we will challenge it."

"And be involved in a long and fruitless political battle with an old monk. Who knows? In the end, you may succeed in having me removed from my post and reduced to the status of a humble brother. And by then, Grégoire will be long gone, to a country where his money and his family can protect him. So you may try. I give you permission, my son. Or you could let this end gracefully." He did not waver. "Now, if you do not mind, I am quite busy with an important missive and would like privacy."

Neither of them dared to challenge _that_. Instead they turned and left him in peace.

* * *

Brian's watch continued through the night. Through the door they could hear the monks singing Compline, the final service of the night. He paced anxiously. "How is he?" 

"The same."

"Do you think he would survive the trip to England?"

"Do we have any other choice? If we stopped in France, how long would it take us to find a decent surgeon?"

He smiled. "Logical as always." He turned at the knock on the door, one hand on his small blade. "Come."

It was a young monk. He did not know any of their names. "Sir, we understand you are leaving soon and taking Brother Grégoire."

"It depends on his health."

"If it is possible, we would like to say good-bye to him."

"He's not conscious. You understand that?"

The monk nodded. "Please, sir."

Thus began the procession, nearly silent, as each monk came in, young and old, to kneel before Grégoire's bed and kiss his hand and whisper in his ear. Brian and Nadezhda watched from the other corner in amazement. Some of the monks were crying, but it was all done in a very dignified and orderly fashion. Grégoire had brief moments of consciousness but not coherency, mumbling nonsense, and they listened to every word. For the last few of them, his eyes seemed to be half-opened, and when the abbot entered, they opened entirely.

The abbot turned first to Brian and handed him a sealed envelope. "Will you give this to him when he is returning to health? It may bring him comfort."

"Of course."

The abbot nodded sadly, and turned to Grégoire, sitting on the stool beside him and holding forth the parchment in Latin. "Brother Grégoire, can you hear me?"

To all of their surprise, he nodded ever so slightly.

"You will not understand this," the abbot said. "You have been so good to the church, but the church has been no good to you. When I sign this document, you will no longer be part of it."

Grégoire had no response. It was doubtful that he understood.

"My son," the abbot said, "remember you serve G-d, not the church, and you can do so in any fashion by leading a pious life. I have no doubt you will do so. You are not damned. I absolve you from all of your sins, real and perceived. Someday, you may see fit to forgive me for mine." He kissed his hand in reverence and stood, setting the parchment down on the stool, and setting up his ink and quill pen. "God forgive me; I know not what I do." He crossed himself and signed. The abbot turned to Brian and Nadezhda. It seemed as though he had aged years in those few moments. "There is a stretcher waiting. My monks will assist you. Please, take him."

"He will forgive you," Nadezhda said. "He is not capable of anything less."

"I hope so." He crossed them. "Go with G-d."

...Next Chapter – Broken Floor, Broken Man


	13. Broken Floor, Broken Man

Manner of Devotion

"_Everybody likes to go their own way--to choose their own time and manner of devotion."_

_Jane Austen, Mansfield Park_

**Author's Note:** Here we are as promised. My policy: Update twice a week or when a chapter reaches 5-10 comments. Man, this is gonna strain my poor beta.

_Pemberley Shades_ has gone in for printing, and the pre-order sale will only continue until it arrives! If you want to order the book at a dollar below the final price, DO IT NOW. Includes a forward by yours truly.

www (dot) laughingmanpublications (dot) com / preorder.htm

* * *

Chapter 13 - Broken Floor, Broken Man 

Darcy had a pistol with him as he descended the hill, following the trail of smoke from the chimney from the house at the bottom. He didn't always go about Derbyshire armed, but in the days since the war, he decided it was a good precaution. He had heard stories of ex-soldiers without jobs roaming the woods in bands. He was not a man to panic, but he would protect his family, and on this particular mission, his son was with him.

Geoffrey Darcy followed a few steps behind him. He was at an age where he was unsure of his own limbs, which seemed to be growing beyond what he was comfortable with, and his voice would occasionally drop and then squeak, much to the delight of his three younger sisters, who tortured him over it.

Darcy remembered that age as well as any man did – he remembered the competition with Wickham. Wickham had always been the taller one even though he was over six months younger, but that changed in Darcy's thirteenth year, and suddenly he started winning their brawls and Wickham turned to his own devices to best him in other areas. Now he could look back and wonder if their father had watched their unknowingly brotherly rivalry with amusement or concern. It was probably both.

He said little, other than to assure his son that the awkward age would pass. He did not mention growing up with Wickham, not willing to accidentally tamper with the friendship of Geoffrey and George, who had the fortune of knowing full well they were cousins. George was taller and older, but he took no delight in it, and there was no real rivalry there. Geoffrey was easier with other people, and had his mother's good nature.

But then again, people change. Darcy could remember thinking Wickham was his best friend. He remembered fishing with him. He remembered learning to ride from the same instructor. How much of the blame really laid on him that it had all gone sour? He had to remind himself that he would never really know.

"Father."

His attention turned back to his son, who was pointing at a dip that Darcy had been about to stumble into. "Thank you_." Perhaps I am getting older_. He was not a vain man – he did not dye his hair as the grey came in – but he liked to think he still had his senses about him. "My mind was elsewhere."

"Are we almost there?"

"You can see the house, can't you?"

"That's where they live? The – "

"The Jenkins, Geoffrey. Yes, this is their house."

He had spent the previous morning speaking with Mr. Jenkins, who petitioned against the raise in his rent. It was a fair raise – land was worth more and all of the rents went up according to inflation – but several people complained. Darcy's steward explained all of the cases of complaint, which Darcy listened to with care. Only one seemed legitimate, and the next day he invited Mr. Jenkins, a tenant farmer, for tea at Pemberley. The man pleaded with him – his wife was sick and their heating costs were always going up. They could not afford the new rent. Darcy said he would think on it and return with an answer.

"Why are we going to their house?"

"Because I shouldn't make a man travel all the way up to Pemberley just because I want to talk to him. I already made him do it once; now I will meet him on his ground."

Eventually they made it down to the road, and the little house that overlooked a wheat field. Mr. Jenkins was sitting on the porch, and rose in surprise. "Mr. Darcy."

"Mr. Jenkins." He offered his hand, and Jenkins took it, but also removed his hat. "This is my son, Geoffrey Darcy."

Jenkins bowed. "Hello, Mr. Geoffrey."

"Hello, Mr. Jenkins," Geoffrey said.

"You've come about the rent."

"We will get to that. First, I understand your wife is ill. May we visit?"

"... Of course, Mr. Darcy. We don't have much to offer you – "

"It's not necessary," Darcy said as they entered the house, which only had a few rooms, and Jenkins scurried about to get them something to drink; they were offered two glasses of very watery beer, which they accepted gratefully. Darcy did not impose on Mrs. Jenkins, an old woman in a rocking chair in her bedroom, exchanging greetings with her as she coughed and sniffled and apologized profusely for not being able to better receive them.

"It's no trouble, I assure you," Mr. Darcy said.

"And this is the young master?" Mrs. Jenkins said with a smile at Geoffrey. Not only was the heir to Pemberley always a subject of speculation among the locals, but the Jenkins had only one son, who had died at Waterloo. "Hello, Mr. Geoffrey."

"Mrs. Jenkins," he said, bowing.

That duty finished, Darcy looked around the building as he talked with the husband. "So is it just a cough, or a cold?"

"It comes and goes. She can never seem to be fully rid of it."

"There's an apothecary by the name of Ashworth in Lambton. He sells mainly tonics, but he has a particular brew for the cough that contains lemon. Ask him for it and tell him I sent you. It's barely more than a bottle of gin and it does wonders. I use it myself sometimes."

"Thank you, Mr. Darcy. About the rent – "

Darcy held up his hand. "I have a question for you, if you would."

"Of course, sir."

Darcy walked to the end of the hallway, which led to the kitchen with its little stove. The logs of wood that were the walls were held together with plaster, and the floor was beaten wood, probably hollow beneath above the stone foundation. "How long has it been since there was any work done on this house?"

"I – I don't know, sir. We bought it after we were married and I used to have a man come by to fix up the plaster when there were holes, but he left to find work in London."

Darcy glanced at his son, then crouched down and pushed down on the floorboard. The other end went up a little. "Your house must be freezing in the winter."

"There's always a draft, even in the summer. In the winter it's terrible, but who doesn't freeze in the winter? This isn't the south."

Darcy nodded, pacing for a moment before halting over a floorboard that rattled when he stepped on it. "Well, I can explain your increased coal use, and probably your wife's continual cold. The cold air comes up through the floorboards from underneath the house. You need to have your floors done."

Jenkins laughed quietly. "I can't afford something like that."

"I happen to have a very good carpenter who owes me a favor. If I sent him over to redo your floors and tighten the plaster, will you agree to the new rent?"

"I don't – yes." He nodded as if assuring himself. "But if it's still cold – "

"Then we'll discuss it again, but I don't think it will be. He's a very good carpenter. He redid all the shooting boxes at Pemberley and you could sleep in them." He offered his hand, this time for business purposes.

Jenkins shook on it. "I agree. May I have an extra week to gather the new rent?"

"You may. My solicitor will be around." He nodded for his son. "And remember – Mr. Ashworth. If he charges you more than five farthings, tell him I sent you."

"Thank you, Mr. Darcy."

They said their good-byes and walked out into the sunlight. They took the long path on the way back, on the road that sloped up slowly instead of the steep incline of the grassy hill.

"Do you really have a carpenter who owes you a favor?"

"Of course I don't," he said to his son. "And it'll be at least twenty pounds to fix that house. Far more than Jenkins could dream of affording."

Geoffrey knew what he was being asked, and counted on his fingers. "You'll lose money! The increase won't cover it for years."

"You're discounting that the rent will rise again eventually, most likely, but yes, I have just lost money. Why do you think I did it?"

His son grabbled with the idea. "Was it charity?"

"It was, in a sense, but not the same as giving money to a beggar. Besides, if I had just offered up money because he was poor and his wife was suffering, why didn't I just give him free lodgings? Or hand him coin to pay for his own repairs?" He answered for Geoffrey. "Because it would have insulted him. He's a working man, son. He doesn't want to be treated like a beggar. Besides, I had another reason."

Geoffrey was given ample time to think as they strolled up the path at their leisure. Finally he said, "I give up."

"There were two reasons to do it, beyond basic charity for his sick wife. First, the rents are going up everywhere, equally, in accordance with the rising price of land. If I made an exception for someone because I felt bad for him, word would get around and I would have everyone at our door, telling me their sad stories, true or not. People talk – they compare notes, especially about the rich and what they do. So the rent had to go up, but I brought down his cost of living – he was buying his wife those expensive miracle cures. You noticed there were a few of them in the bin in the kitchen? And of course there is the matter of the cost of coal to heat the house."

"But you _still_ lost money."

"But I bought something far more important – respect. Landlords are always despised because people have to pay them money to live in their homes. A landlord who is liked is a hard thing to find. When Mr. Jenkins figures out the real price of the renovations, he'll know I did him right, and if someone raises objections to the way I treat my tenants in some tavern in Lambton, he might say something against it." He put his hand on his son's back. "It is very important to be liked by the people who owe you money. I would not do this for every tenant or I would not be very responsible with my money, but not every tenant has such an easy problem to solve. So the larger picture is more important in this case. The master of Pemberley must be regarded as a respectable man and even-handed landlord and employer, sometimes even at his own expense."

"Did Grandfather Darcy tell you that?"

"He did. He was a good master. One of the few things I remember about his funeral was how many of his own tenants came out to pay their respects." He looked at his son's expression. "Do not worry yourself – I've no intention of giving up the ghost anytime soon." He gave him a playful shake. "That's enough for today."

"May I go to Kirkland?"

"Yes. But be home before supper!"

"I will!" He bowed quickly to his father before running off ahead of him.

When Darcy had become a father to Georgiana Darcy, it was in desperation and despair. When he became a father of his children with his wife by his side, it was perhaps his greatest delight. It soothed his mind, which was tired from many nights of uneasy rest that he could not properly explain.

* * *

"Dr. Maddox!" 

So happily was he asleep that he would have preferred to ignore the call, but it was annoyingly persistent.

"I thought you retired," Caroline mumbled next to him as he sat up and reached for his glasses.

"I thought I did," he said, and shambled to the door, throwing on a robe as he did and opening the door just a slit. "Yes?"

"Your brother is here with a patient. He said to get you up immediately, sir."

"My brother?" His instincts kicked in; he was instantly awake. "Who is the patient? Her Highness?"

"Grégoire Darcy."

He did not question what Grégoire Darcy was doing in his house, much less England. He closed his robe and followed the servant with the lantern down the steps, where he found his brother and sister-in-law bearing a stretcher themselves. "Put him in a room over there, on the extra cot," he said instantly. "Is he hurt or sick?"

"Both."

He turned to his manservant, who was also in his bedclothes. "Get all my equipment together and my surgical clothes. I'll change in my room in a few minutes." He grabbed a candlestick and followed Brian and Nadezhda into a spare room he used for minor surgery (scrapes and the like) because the bed was not ornate, only for one person, and in the middle of the room. "More light," he ordered to the servant closest. "And get a maid up to start boiling water. And we'll need ice, too."

"He's pretty badly hurt," Brian said. "He can only lie on his side."

"Align the stretcher with the bed, and we'll transfer him." He set down the candlestick and stood on the other side of the bed. "Here, Grégoire. Let's see you." Grégoire did not respond other than to shake, curled tightly up as he was. Fortunately he was not very heavy, and Dr. Maddox was strong enough to safely lift him from the stretcher to the bed. He felt his head. "How long has he had a fever?"

"It's been up and down, but over a week now. We found him like this in Spain. He's barely holding on."

Nadezhda stroked Grégoire's hair. He was a mess, and had about two week's worth of a shaggy beard. "You're home, Grégoire."

"Before I cut off his clothes – where are his wounds?"

"On his back," Brian said. "They beat him for some minor infraction; nearly killed him. Then the doctor sewed him up badly and it became infected, so they cut him open again to try to treat it, and that didn't help." He looked up and Dr. Maddox saw fear in his eyes. "It's bad."

"He's alive," Dr. Maddox said. "After all this time."

"He was wearing a hairshirt."

He stuttered, "A hairshirt? Like Thomas Becket?"

"Apparently."

Dr. Maddox knew he did not have time to pass judgment. The manservant returned with his tools and he cut away the robe and the bloodied undershirt beneath it, revealing lines of bad lacing, green with infection. The smell was bad enough; he removed them both from the room. "I need help to do this." He turned to his manservant, who handed him his surgical case. "Take one of my cards to Dr. Andrew Bertrand's house. The address is on my desk. If he's not there, track him down; he's probably at Charlton House. And unless the Prince Regent is _actively_ dying, get the doctor. I also need a surgeon from the clinic with the Royal Society, so tell Andrew that and he'll know how to procure one at this hour. Time is of the absolute essence."

His manservant, who was accustomed to serving a surgeon, simply nodded. "Yes, sir."

Dr. Maddox turned to his guests, bowing. "Sorry for not properly receiving you, but thank you for coming."

"Thank G-d you're here and not in Brighton or Derbyshire," Brian Maddox said. "Is there anything else we can do?"

He thought it over. "A priest, a Catholic one. I honestly have no idea where you would find one, but there's certainly any number of them in London."

"He was kicked out of the church. You should know that. It's a mess that I'll be happy to explain when we have time, but don't call him Brother Grégoire, because he isn't."

"But he's not – he can talk to a priest?"

"So I've been told."

He nodded, and embraced his brother. "It's good to see you, by the way."

"You too, Danny."

Maddox bowed to Nadezhda. "Your Highness. Could you watch him while I prepare myself?"

"Of course."

He had no time for further discussion. He hurried into his bedroom, which he had not used in weeks, and quickly dressed himself in his worst clothes and black apron. He stepped out of the door to be greeted by his wife in her nightgown, leaning on the doorframe of her chambers. "What is it?"

"Grégoire is badly wounded and needs surgery."

She was clearly not awake enough to fully comprehend, but she nodded anyway. "Does Darcy know?"

"I have no idea. They've just arrived and Darcy is in Derbyshire, so I imagine not."

"You're nervous."

He was usually so good at hiding it. "No, I'm not."

"He's going to die, isn't he?"

He sighed. "I don't know. It will be close."

She embraced him, kissing him softly. "You're the best surgeon in England. He'll be fine."

"How do you always know what to say to me?"

She gave him a little smile. "I'm not your wife for nothing."

* * *

When Dr. Maddox returned to the bottom floor, he could hear the servants in the kitchen, getting water heated for him to wash his instruments and his patient. His manservant was gone and probably would be for at least an hour. He washed his hands in a bowl in the kitchen and entered the room, where Nadezhda sat next to the bed, holding Grégoire's hand. 

"Is he conscious?"

"He comes in and out."

He took a seat on the other side, removing the cover and looking at the wounds again, trying to construct the procedure in his mind. The wounds were not deep, but they were so extensive that they were dangerous. He probably lost blood when they reopened the wounds, however long ago that were. The lacing they used in Spain was inferior; no wonder it had caused infection. He took a sponge and slowly began to wash some of the areas of skin that were uninjured but were caked in dried blood. Grégoire cried out all the same. "I'm sorry, Grégoire, but I have to do this." He noticed the rosary clutched in the monk's – well, former monk's – hand was itself filthy with grime and blood. "I will give it right back," he said as he unwound it from Grégoire's hand.

"Don't – "

"I promise, you'll have it right back." He dunked the rosary in the water bowl, scraping off the dirt with his hands until it shined again. "There." He took the opportunity to open Grégoire's hand and wipe it clean before returning the rosary, cross in palm. "Just like new."

Grégoire nodded into his pillow in affirmation. He was not strong enough to speak further.

"When was the last time he drank something?"

"A few hours now; we were giving him broth on the ship."

"Then you're a better nursemaid than most of the doctors I know," he said, and left the room only to call for some soup to be heated and brought to them.

Only with Nadezhda's pleading did Grégoire swallow a few spoonfuls. "You need your strength."

_What is left of it_, Dr. Maddox thought.

Next Chapter - "...To Forgive, Divine"


	14. “To Forgive, Divine”

Manner of Devotion

"_Everybody likes to go their own way--to choose their own time and manner of devotion."_

_Jane Austen, Mansfield Park_

**Author's Note:** Here we are as promised. My policy: Update twice a week or when a chapter reaches 5-10 comments. Thank Brandy, my beta, for the strain. FFnet seems to not be sending out alerts so that's stretching it out a bit for now.

_Pemberley Shades_ has gone in for printing, and the pre-order sale will only continue until it arrives! If you want to order the book at a dollar below the final price, DO IT NOW. Includes a forward by yours truly.

www (dot) laughingmanpublications (dot) com / preorder.htm

* * *

Chapter 14 - "...To Forgive, Divine"

Dr. Bertrand arrived just before the first rooster crow. He was quickly introduced to Mrs. Maddox and the doctor's brother and sister-in-law, and then joined Dr. Maddox alone with the patient.

"The surgeon will be here by six," he said. "Mr. Stevens."

"I know him. Short, blond hair?" he said as he removed the covering over Grégoire, giving Bertrand time to make his own visual assessment.

"Who is this?"

"My cousin through marriage and a monk. Or he was, until last week. And no, this is not his fault." He frowned. "The problem as I see it is if we cut away all the infected flesh, there won't be much to sew back together."

"Skin from his leg?"

"Too risky. Too many veins."

Dr. Bertrand nodded. "His arms."

"I'm not happy about doing it. Have you ever done a skin graft?"

"I've seen it done," Bertrand said. "But I don't have battlefield experience with it. They die faster than I can save them at that point. Do we know how deep the wounds are?"

"No, but they're fairly superficial, I think we can assume. We have to do this very fast. He's already lost blood twice over this. I don't know how much he has left to lose."

"Who did this? This is a mess."

"Some incompetent physician in Spain," Dr. Maddox said with disgust. "Twice, too. When the surgeon gets here, we'll begin. You take from the arm; I'll handle the back. Mr. Stevens will monitor his pulse and his breathing." He started opening his medical case and selecting equipment. "Did you sleep or are you just coming off the job?"

"I went home early. I haven't slept yet, but I will be fine for another few hours," he said. "Have you operated on relatives before?"

"Unfortunately," Dr. Maddox replied.

* * *

By the time Brian returned with the priest, the house was up, aside from the children. Caroline Maddox was writing a letter for the Darcys to leave immediately, knowing full well that Grégoire could be dead in a few hours. Father LeBlanc, who had been apprised of the complex situation on the way, was ushered into the room. "May I have time alone with him, Doctor?"

"Sadly, no," said Dr. Maddox. "Andrew, you stay. You're not his relative. Wake him up with the salts. Father, this is Dr. Bertrand, who just has to monitor the patient." He bowed to the priest and exited as Dr. Bertrand went back to shaving Grégoire's arm.

In the living room, Dr. Maddox collapsed on the couch and called for tea. His brother sat beside him, with Nadezhda leaning on her husband's shoulder, asleep. "It was a long ride home," Brian explained, not looking particularly rosy himself. "What do you think?"

"It's close," he replied. "I am surprised he made it this long."

"He is a Darcy. They're fighters."

"You realize if Darcy comes here to find his brother dead, we may have to restrain him from killing us both."

Brian managed a chuckle. "Of that I am well aware, Danny."

* * *

Dr. Bertrand did succeed in rousing Grégoire with salts, and the ex-monk seemed to be at least semi-coherent. "Mr. Darcy, this is Father LeBlanc."

"Hello, my son," the priest said. He was an older man, without ornament aside from his black dress and his collar. He put a hand over Grégoire's, which was feverishly tightened around his rosary. "You don't have to say anything, but if you have something you would like to confess – "

"Forgive me Father, for I have sinned," Grégoire said. He was on his stomach, so he had no way to cross himself, and just waved his hand in a futile attempt. "I – I don't know how long it has been ... since my last confession." He blinked, his eyes bloodshot. "I don't know anything."

"When was your last confession? Do you know the date?" the priest said softly.

"I – it was after the end of the month, but there was also the confession to Father Abbot; I don't know if that counted." His voice was weak, his eyes weaker. "Forgive me Father, for I have sinned – I don't know anything anymore. I am lost."

"I was told about the incident in Spain. You were not at fault. The abbot said so to your cousin."

"I – it doesn't -," he trailed off. "I don't know what I did. I don't know what I'll do. I don't know _anything_. How can I confess?" He was upset. "_How can I confess?_ I don't understand if I did anything wrong or what I did that was wrong – I don't know my own sins – "

"You _do_ know that G-d's mercy is boundless," the priest said. "And that if you have sinned, you are forgiven. You believe you are lost, and you may well feel so, but you have a family that will help you find yourself again. They went through great lengths to bring you here."

"– I – am I – where am I?"

" England. You're in London, my son."

Grégoire paused, not totally understanding him. "Where is my brother?"

"I've been told he's in Derbyshire. He'll no doubt rush to your side, but that will take time. You have to go that far."

"And what if I can't?" he said. "What if I don't want to?"

Father LeBlanc paused. "'For this is thankworthy: if a man for conscience toward G-d endure grief, suffering wrongfully.'"(1)

"Saint Peter."

"Yes, my son."

"First book, I think."

"Yes. You are very knowledgeable. You are not suffering for nothing. G-d has a greater plan for you."

Grégoire opened his eyes again. "People keep saying that. I don't want it to be true. I just want to lead the life I was leading. Why can't I go in peace?"

"That is not for you to decide. That is the L-rd's domain." Seeing Grégoire's discomfort with the answer, he said, "You have this moment to decide to live or die. You have to choose to go on before you can even begin to choose a life for yourself."

Grégoire did not respond, visually or audibly. He did however remain awake, staring into the space in front of him for some time.

Father LeBlanc removed a piece of paper from his pocket, "I was asked to read this to you. It was written by your cousin, Mr. Maddox." He cleared his throat. "'Dear Grégoire. Please do not die, because if you do, Darcy will come down here and shoot me and Danny in the head. And then Georgiana will come down and stamp on your grave for never meeting your new nephew.' Oh, dear. I should have read that first." But he looked up, and Grégoire was smiling. "You have a new nephew?"

"I had just received the letter – before this all began. His name is Robert Kincaid. My sister's first child."

"I see. You seem to have quite a loving family, there."

"Yes," Grégoire said, and unclenched his fist to take the priest's hand. "I – am not totally at full wit – would you please, Father, say the Hail Mary, so I don't fail to remember it."

"Of course, my son." He made the cross over Grégoire. "_Ave María, grátia plena Dóminus tecum; Benedícta tu in muliéribus, et benedíctus fructus ventris tui, Jesus_ – "

Grégoire joined him. By the end of it, his voice had faded, and shortly after the 'Amen' he had lost consciousness.

Father LeBlanc blessed him again, and stepped out. "He's ready."

_(1)1 Peter 2:19_

* * *

Darcy had ridden for nearly two days, stopping only when his horse was about to collapse and to sleep a few restless hours at an inn. It was the same old road to Town, and most of the innkeepers along the way knew the travelers, and the barkeep's wife said something to him about never having seen him in such a state of distress, which he characteristically ignored and collapsed on the bed, waking only a few hours later.

By mid-afternoon on the second day he had passed all of the major centers before London itself. It was amazing to think that just the morning before, he had been casually breakfasting with his wife and about to go shooting with Bingley when the express courier arrived and Pemberley was thrown into an uproar. Darcy insisted Elizabeth take a carriage; Elizabeth insisted he not ride so fast as to have an injury along the way, as his brother was unlikely to appreciate _that_. The letter from Mrs. Maddox said she had written Georgiana as well, but they sent on a letter anyway, just in case the first was lost. It was a simple matter to tell the Bingleys, who lived but three miles from them, and they pledged their support and said they would join them as soon as possible. Mugen, who had been staying with them, asked directions and took off on foot.

"He will be all right," Elizabeth said as she kissed her husband goodbye, knowing full well that Grégoire was probably already dead and had been for at least a day. The condition Mrs. Maddox described was not particularly encouraging (but then again the former Miss Caroline Bingley was not very good at false encouragement, so she made no attempt).

Why hadn't he gone to Spain? He went through all the logical reasons: The situation did not seem dire, he had sent someone in his stead that was probably wandering around Madrid; he had written Grégoire and expected a response. He also didn't much care to leave England, but that was beside the point – he would have done it in a heartbeat if he knew Grégoire was in trouble. Again. But he had had the foresight to send Mr. Maddox, thank G-d. That was his only consolation on the desperate journey.

He arrived in Town barely able to stand, and with his horse in a similar condition. Not bothering with anything else, he went immediately to the Maddox townhouse and would have kicked the door open if the doorman had not been standing there. "Mister – "

He ignored him. Dr. Maddox had the poor fortune to be stepping out of his study, in chief view and ready to be assaulted by a dirt-covered, exasperated Darcy. But before he could say anything, in all of his rush to do so, it was Maddox who said most calmly, "He's alive."

"Where – "

He pointed to a side room. "His fever broke this morning. He has defeated one infection; as long as he does not develop another, he should be all right." When Darcy tried to move towards the door, Maddox grabbed him by the arm hard enough to hold him back. "Take a moment for yourself. He's not well. It would be better if he saw you in a better state."

"What do you mean, he's not well?"

"He had a fever for over two weeks, and though he's not senseless, his memories of what happened before and since it are not entirely intact. Also, he's been tossed from the church."

Darcy did allow the doorman to remove his soiled overcoat and hat, and provide him with a wet cloth to wash off his face. Dr. Maddox waited patiently with him, guiding him into the sitting room and calling for tea. It was dusk now, and with the light went Darcy's energy, but it was still hard for him to break from the state of heightened alarm he had been in for so long. "What?"

"I don't fully understand it, but yes. They were very cruel to him about holding back his money from them and the abbot thought he would be better protected if he left the church entirely. Or so I have been told. The story Brian told is a convoluted one, and not because of a mistranslation." 

"But he's safe."

"He's lost everything," he said. "You know the church was his life. Imagine Pemberley and your family being taken from you for some outrageous reason."

Darcy, who gladly accepted the tea to sake his thirst – he would have accepted anything wet – nodded but did not understand. So many emotions ran through his head that he could not pick one. "Does he know? Does he remember?"

"Unfortunately yes, he does remember _that_. When you talk to him, don't speak ill of the church. I know there is that temptation, but it will do him no good to hear it."

"I understand." He truly didn't, but he understood the message. "I assume there was – work done on him?"

"Yes. I will discuss them after you've seen him. He can't be moved, and the stitches can't come out for at least another few days, but aside from his skin, he is not permanently injured."

"I don't know what you did," Darcy said, "but thank you."

"Thank my brother for getting him here in time," Dr. Maddox said, and left him to his own devices.

Darcy wasted no time charging into his brother's room, albeit still more calmly than he was inclined. Grégoire was on his side, wearing a white shirt over layers of bandages wrapped around his torso. He had a small beard, and fuzz on his head from where his tonsure used to be, and seemed only half-aware of his surroundings as Darcy pulled up a seat beside him and took his hand. "Brother – "

"Grégoire," Darcy said. "I'm here."

Grégoire just nodded. He was not capable of much other movement. He was pale and sickly, but only as could be expected.

"I'm here," Darcy repeated, to reassure himself that it was true. He stroked Grégoire's hair. It was so much like Geoffrey's. "Elizabeth and the children are on the way, but I rode ahead. They should be here maybe tomorrow night. And Georgiana – I don't know if she can come, but I'm sure she will if she can."

"How is she?"

"Radiant. She thoroughly enjoys being a mother. And Robert is ... well, the second most beautiful boy in the entire world. The top prize belongs to _my_ son, but do not dare tell her I said that."

Grégoire smiled. "I promise. How is Geoffrey?"

"You won't recognize him. He must be nearly a head taller than when you saw him last. Anne is forever demanding rides on his back. And then Sarah does it and then Cassandra does it – he hardly gets a moment alone with three sisters who adore him." Since Grégoire seemed to be enjoying listening, he continued, "Bingley's children are all well. Georgiana – well, I suppose she'll be out in a few years. G-d, I can hardly imagine it. She went to Ireland with Her Highness while Mr. Maddox and Bingley were gone."

"Bingley's returned from India?" 

"Yes, he came with Brian. Didn't –"

"My mind," Grégoire said, "is a blur. I did not connect the two events at all. How is he?"

"His usual, overexcited self. He is coming to see you – they all are," he said. "And I'll bring George and Isabel around. George is – well, you will be very impressed. He looks just like his father, but is growing into a responsible and respectable man; quite a scholar. Who knows, he may end up in the church –" He cut himself off, as if some alarm had rung in his mind.

"You can say it," Grégoire said weakly, "but I have no advice for him there."

He swallowed. "I was advised not to discuss this topic with you. I know you are hurt and ... well, I have never had good things to say about your church, but I realize now -" He bit his lip. "I realize it's not my place to say it, one way or the other. To be honest, I don't know what to make of it."

"I don't know what to make of it either," Grégoire said. His voice was slowly declining into a hoarse whisper, but he gave no indication of wanting the conversation to end. "I am lost."

"You were wronged."

"It doesn't matter," he said. "I have not the strength to be angry. I just look ahead and see nothing."

"You are a man with a great fortune, a loving family, and no obligations of any kind. Many people would trade anything to be in your position." He added, "Metaphorically."

"I pledged myself to G-d, Darcy," Grégoire rasped. "How am I to fulfill that now?"

Darcy knew enough not to contradict him about what Grégoire felt were his obligations. Grégoire Darcy would never be an English gentleman. He would never settle for a position in the church here. Darcy felt his own despair – his brother was so helpless, and he could not advise him. "I have no wisdom for you," he said, his voice wavering. "What kind of answer is that? I can comfort my wife when she is in crisis or counsel my son in his anxieties about his responsibilities, or shelter my sister when she needs it, but I can think of nothing for you." He pinched his eyes, mainly from exhaustion but also because he did not want to show his tears. "I am a terrible brother. I could not lead Wickham to the right path and I don't even know what yours is. How can I guide you? How can I help you?"

Grégoire didn't answer for some time. Darcy, ashamed to look at him, wondered if he had gone back to sleep until Grégoire spoke, "You can get the doctor for me. That you can do."

"Are you ill?"

"I am in need of my pain medicine to sit up, and I am eager to do so."

Darcy nodded. He did not have to go far to find Dr. Maddox in his study. "My brother asked me – "

Dr. Maddox looked at his watch. "Yes, it's time for his medicine." He took Darcy back to the room, where he shook the green bottle and fed Grégoire a spoonful of his opium tonic. "He'll probably go back to sleep now."

"I'll stay with him."

The doctor nodded and excused himself. Darcy turned back to his brother, who was attempting to get up and failing horribly. "What happened to your arms?"

"Those?" Grégoire said, meaning the bandages on both his forearms. "I think – Dr. Maddox may have said he needed more skin for my back. Or I may have misheard him. Either way, they're new." Slowly, and obviously quite painfully, he came to a sitting position, using the pillows and Darcy's arms to hold him up. "Is it half past seven, isn't it?"

Darcy looked at his pocket watch. "It is. Precisely. How did you know?"

"Compline. It's time for Compline," he said, referring to the monastic hour of prayer. "Will you hold me up so I can say psalms?"

Darcy did not offer any argument. Grégoire leaned on him, whispering to himself in Latin and holding his rosary, and lasted a good ten minutes until he dropped off right in Darcy's arms. Darcy laid his brother back down on the bed, and kissed him on the head.

That was all he could think of to do.

Next Chapter - The Abbot's Epistle


	15. The Abbot's Epistle

Manner of Devotion

"_Everybody likes to go their own way--to choose their own time and manner of devotion."_

_Jane Austen, Mansfield Park_

**Author's Note:** My policy: Update twice a week or when a chapter reaches 5-10 comments. FFnet is STILL not sending out alerts, so echeck back.

_Pemberley Shades_ has gone in for printing, and the pre-order sale will only continue until it arrives, which should be sometime next week, and then I will shut up about it. If you want to order the book at a dollar below the final price, DO IT NOW. Includes a forward by yours truly.

www (dot) laughingmanpublications (dot) com / preorder.htm

* * *

Chapter 15 – The Abbot's Epistle 

It was an unspoken agreement that Darcy would stay with his brother at the Maddox house. After he had dinner and a bath, he sat down with Brian and Nadezhda Maddox, who told the story as best they understood it, based on what the abbot had told them.

"So they beat him almost to death for honoring his father's wishes," Darcy said, holding back his emotions, "and then they decided he was a saint instead and made plans to honor him in Rome against his consent?"

"Yes," Brian said. "There were also plans to inter him in Rome, if that was to be the case, but Grégoire had told the abbot when he joined the monastery that he wanted to be buried at Pemberley instead of with the other monks in the abbey graveyard. The abbot wanted to honor his wishes."

"And he stood up to his Archbishop?"

"The politics of Rome are complex. Apparently his brother is Pope or something," Brian said. "This was the only way to save him – physically – without damning his soul, to cast him out of the church. He can be a layman and maybe a priest, but never more than that."

Darcy digested this silently.

"This may be poor consolation," Brian said, "but that abbot did everything he could for your brother. After the fact, yes, but he still did. He was very upset over it."

It was very little consolation, but Darcy nodded nonetheless. He excused himself to check one last time on Grégoire and headed upstairs, passing Caroline Maddox on the way. "Mrs. Maddox."

"Mr. Darcy."

"Thank you for writing," he said. "I wrote my sister, but I do not know if she can come down."

"You would be surprised," she said. "If you haven't been told – Daniel's new assistant for the Prince was called in with a student surgeon. He was terrified that he wouldn't save Grégoire. I'd never seen him so involved in a surgical patient – no offense to you."

"None taken," he said. "Thank you."

They nodded to each other, and Darcy took his leave, retiring immediately. Caroline continued down the hallway, where she heard her husband talking to Brian and Nadezhda.

"I noticed you didn't mention the hairshirt."

"I'm not going to be the one to tell him that," Brian said. "I think it's better if he doesn't know. If you want to tell him, that is another matter."

"I've always believed in patient confidentiality."

Feeling a little guilty for listening in on a conversation (something she rarely felt guilty about), she joined them rather quickly. "What is this about?"

Dr. Maddox looked up at her from the armchair. "He was wearing a hairshirt for years before this. That was why his wounds were so severe."

"What's a hairshirt?"

"It's a device made to mortify the flesh – you wear it as an undershirt and it slowly tears at your skin," Brian said. "Thomas Becket wore one."

"The English saint? The Archbishop?"

"The very one," her husband said. "After he was murdered by the king's knights, the men sent to strip him found he was wearing a hairshirt, presumably as penance for almost giving in to the Henry's demands for more power over the church. For his suffering, he was made a saint within years." He added, "Which was probably the precise thing on their minds after the initial punishment."

"The abbot was right in sending him away," Nadezhda said. "Politically for Grégoire, it was the right thing to do."

"But that doesn't make it easier," Dr. Maddox said.

* * *

As he could not expect his wife and children so quickly in their carriages, Darcy rose in the morning after a fitful sleep and ventured to the Bradley household. George and Isabel Wickham immediately offered to visit their uncle, having not been previously informed (the former Mrs. Wickham showed no particular interest, but that was expected). 

"Uncle Grégoire!" Isabel Wickham shouted as she ran into his room, totally lacking decorum but making up for it in affection as he did his best to welcome her, but could only manage to shake her hand. They had managed to flip him on his other side, because his arm was getting sore. "Why didn't you tell us you were sick?"

"Some things sneak up on me," he said, his voice barely above a gasp.

George was next. He bowed. "Uncle Grégoire."

"George." He smiled. "You look just like your father."

"I know," he answered.

"It – it isn't a bad thing," Grégoire said, not apologizing. He was just speaking naturally, if in a very weak voice. "Your father gave his life to save me and Darcy. He was a great man for that alone. Whatever ... anyone else says ... is nonsense." He reached out and tried to touch George's face, but he needed help to do it. "I have heard from Darcy about you. You would make him proud."

"Thank you, Uncle," George said, not sure what to make of that. People either sad bad things about George Wickham senior or nothing at all. It was usually the latter when he was around. "When you recover – will you help me with some Greek? Since I'm not going to Eton or Harrow – "

"I would be honored," Grégoire said with a smile.

George was observant enough to notice his uncle was drifting off, no matter how eager he was to see his nephew. "I'll be back tomorrow, or the next day. Rest, Uncle Grégoire."

"Bless you, George."

George nodded and stepped out of the room, making the way for Dr. Maddox to enter. Outside, his sister was waiting.

"He's going to be all right, isn't he?" Isabel said.

"I think so," he answered.

"He doesn't look good."

"I know. He has been sick for a long time, but he's better now."

"I have so many uncles and he's the nicest." She was instantly aware of shuffling in the background. "Oh, Uncle Darcy, I did not mean –"

He smiled. "It is all right. Grégoire is gifted with the most generous disposition of us all. I won't deny it." He gave her a reassuring pat. "He will be fine."

"Can I bring my cat? Do you think he'll like that?"

"Perhaps. Ask Mrs. Maddox first."

She curtseyed and ran off to do so, leaving Darcy with George. "How is your mother?"

"Fine. Brandon started sleeping through the night."

"Good for all of you, I imagine."

George nodded. "Is everyone else coming?"

"Yes; I just rode on ahead in a panic. Aunt Darcy should be here tonight or tomorrow morning with your cousins."

He said in a lower voice, "Is he going to be all right?"

"Physically, I'm told, yes. But he needs support that no one knows how to give him. Beyond that, everyone has to find their own way." That wasn't true, entirely; from his first breath Fitzwilliam Darcy had been destined to be master of Pemberley and had time for no other occupation. Younger sons, sons without estates but with money – they had freedom, but little occupation for them. George might be happy in the church; Grégoire would not. Or maybe he would surprise them all. He was certainly quite capable of doing so.

Their reverie was interrupted by Emily Maddox. "Mr. Darcy! George!"

"Hello, Miss Maddox," Darcy said. "What do you have there?"

She had in her hands a sheet of paper. "It's a gift – for Grégoire." Before either of them could protest, she ran straight to the door and opened it on her father, who was just exiting. "Papa, can I see him?"

"He's just had his medicine so you can try, but he might not stay awake."

"She seems rather eager to try," Darcy said.

Dr. Maddox could deny his daughter nothing, and they reentered the room, where Grégoire looked at Emily with glassy eyes. "Oh. Hello."

"I made you a picture. Mama says I have to learn drawing and I was tired of making pictures of flowers and buildings."

"Oh."

Dr. Maddox picked the picture out of her hands, which was fairly well-drawn for an eight-year-old. "It seems to be you and – a man I don't recognize. He has a halo."

"Papa! He's Jesus. Don't you know what Jesus looks like?"

Grégoire, who had not gone to sleep quite yet, smiled. "Let me see." He opened his eyes as Dr. Maddox held the picture up. "I seem to be – yes, I am holding hands with Jesus." It was a drawing of him in his brown robe and Jesus in a blue one with a beard and a halo. "Why are we holding boxes?"

"I asked Father LeBlanc what a monk was, and he said a monk was a man who devoted his life to the Holy Father. So I thought you must be friends with His son."

"Yes," Dr. Maddox said in self-amusement, "but why are they holding boxes?"

Emily grinned. "Because they're going shopping! Don't you know _anything_, Papa?"

Grégoire laughed into the pillow. "Why ... why am I going shopping with Our L-rd and Savior?"

"Well, it's what Mama does with_ her_ friends."

Dr. Maddox had a hard time containing his own laughter. "Would you like me to put it up, Grégoire?"

"Please ... _after_ you show Mrs. Maddox."

* * *

The rest of the day brought something they did not expect – rain. It descended on London from the north, so they could only assume the carriages from Derbyshire would be further delayed by weather. A well-muddied rider arrived to say just that – that Mrs. Darcy and children were stuck at an inn until it relented; more waiting, and another restless night for Darcy. He had slept without Elizabeth before, but not in Town when he was so disturbed and needed her. More importantly, Grégoire needed her. He needed to see the children – he loved the children. _Maybe he could run an orphanage_, he thought. _Or run a school. He would enjoy a life of charity and he loves children_. But Darcy could not bring himself to start discussing possibilities. Grégoire slept most of the time, waking mostly when his medicine wore off and in what was obviously terrible pain. He would grapple with things later; Darcy bothered him no further. Darcy spent the afternoon watching him sleep, wondering what else he could have done. _Maybe now I can convince him to have some children of his own. But no, that would have to be subtle_. 

Brian and Nadezhda had not returned to their home outside Town yet. Brian had business in Town, and they wanted to hover over their former charge as much as anyone else. It was Brian who produced a letter during one of the hours when Grégoire was both awake and aware. It was still sealed. "This is from the abbot. He said it would bring you some comfort. Do you wish me to open it?"

Grégoire nodded.

Brian broke the seal, revealing several pages of Latin. "This may have to wait. We have your spectacles – we were allowed to take your spectacles and portraits of your family."

"Can someone read it to me?" Grégoire asked. "If it is not too much trouble."

"I haven't used my Latin since Cambridge," Darcy said.

"I didn't go to Cambridge," Brian added. "I'll get Daniel."

They summoned Dr. Maddox, who was of course completely obliging. "My pronunciation will probably be terrible, but I think I can read it aloud."

Grégoire begged for him to do so. Darcy and Brian excused themselves, shutting the door behind them. Whatever was between the abbot and the monk whose life he had destroyed was certainly private, even if it was in a foreign tongue.

* * *

Dr. Maddox cleared his throat. "My apologies for any horrible mispronunciations." 

"That is fine," Grégoire said. "Please, I am a most willing listener."

The doctor nodded and began, not entirely understanding the lines he was saying, but getting the general sense of it as he went along. If Grégoire did not understand anything, he gave no indication.

_Dear Grégoire Bellamont-Darcy, _

_I can but begin to imagine what you are going through, though I am old and I may be entirely incorrect in my wild assumptions, and you may find yourself already well and happily-settled in _ _England__. If this is true, then you will find no comfort in these words, but they may not be upsetting either. If my instincts are right, my meaning in this dictation is twofold: to explain fully my actions so that you would know how and why you came to be where you are now, and to confess to you my sins, for I cannot be forgiven otherwise. You have no obligation to feel any tenderness towards me, for I deserve none, but I cannot find any solace until I have at least begun my confession. If you do not wish to hear it, toss it in the fire. I just wished to write it. _

_I must begin in _ _Cesena__, where I was born and raised with my younger brother, Barnaba Niccolò Maria Luigi Chiaramonti, now the Vicar of Christ, Pius VII. To the subject at hand, my brother went into the church, as was our family's tradition for younger sons, or even older sons if they aspired to power, but he instead became a Benedictine and wrote home about his life in the monastery of Saint Maria del Monte of Cesena. I was never much one for politics, which are the bread and butter of an Italian family of wealth and power, and the quiet life was an attraction to me for the same reason it is to many people – an escape from the requirements of a normal life. My father did not oppose me becoming a novice even at a very young age, as he already had one secular son and two daughters, and the church could be a secular occupation as well as a religious one, should I ever incline in that direction. It was decided, however, that I would not join the same monastery as my brother, lest it be thought that I was merely following in his footsteps. I went instead to San Gregorio (where, coincidentally, was the name my brother took for himself upon taking his vows – your name, Gregorio) and I took the cowl at fifteen. I confess that though I enjoyed the community to which I had vowed my life, I longed for other experiences – I confess to you now, not all were good, especially when I was a man of eighteen. My abbot did see to send me abroad, thinking I would either abandon my order quietly and respectfully outside of the Roman sphere, or I would work out my feelings there and return satiated. I traveled first to the __Holy Land__, and was blessed to see the sight of our L-rd's crucifixion. There was no doubt in my mind that I would never leave the church, though I might have thoughts to stray from it or feel frustrations, as does any human being. _

_I was sent north to the __Turkish Empire__'s capitol, and clearly failed in my mission to convert them to Christianity, for as I understand, they remain Mohammedians to this day. Ah, the follies of youth. _

_That summer I continued my journey to _ _Bucharest__, where some real goals might be accomplished in delivering messages to the brothers and bishops there, who were in conflict with the Orthodox Church. I lodged in an apartment, and every morning, a young woman of Slavic origins whose name I shall leave to privacy brought me fresh milk. Needless to say, I was as weak to temptation as any man my age, and proved that summer that I was no saint in my first and only violation of my lifelong celibacy. At the time I regretted it but put no stop to it; that was brought on by the order for my return to my monastery, which brought on a great depression. This seemed to surprise my lover, who said she knew many a priest (though, she would always add, none so handsome as myself) who unmade himself as easily as any married man who promised never to stray from his wife, but then of course returned to his home for supper, so-to-speak. At this I dropped on my knees and began to pray for G-d's forgiveness, and she said something to me which would carry me through the rest of my life. "You think you are so pious – the apostles all sinned and you cannot?" _

_Our parting was tender, and I learned a good deal more humility from her than I ever learned from the Discipline. When I returned, much to my surprise, the abbot did ask me to perform penance for my sins (which I most dutifully did) but was not impressed by my tale of sinful woe. "I do not know anyone in the church who I would not think to say the same thing at one point, except those who have never left the doors of the monastery since their entrance – and they are often guilty of much greater crimes of the flesh." He was as forgiving as was permitted within the Rule, for which I am forever grateful. _

_I had now been ten years in the Brotherhood of Saint Benedict and my brother fifteen, and our father was growing impatient. My esteemed brother seemed interested in nothing but his daily labors of copying manuscripts, and my father desired that at least one of us aspire to a cardinalship. I was feeling particularly eager to please someone, and so against my instincts I accepted a small bishopric near the Papal Lands that required me to often be in _ _Rome__, and there I lingered for the most miserable years of my life. His Holiness Pius VI was a good man, but very political, and concerned with Jesuit policies and agricultural reforms, and throwing off the yoke of _ _France__. None of this interested me, and all of the other things the city offered me were not to my taste, besides the usual pilgrimage sites and prayer. Rome, as you no doubt saw while you were there, is a city like any other city; it only proposes to be something different, but there was sin there. It was nothing like the horrible tales from the days before the Reformation, of which there remained daily reminders, but it was still not what I sought. I do hear that His Holiness appeared rather unfavorably in some fiction by the Marquis de Sade, which is unfortunate. I would never read such literature, but I would assume based on the barest of things I have heard that he was not given credit as a Vicar of Christ. _

_It was upon my father's death that I, when finished grieving, was free to request a transfer. I accepted a bishopric near _ _Oviedo__, and as you know, eventually became Archbishop of the region. At the very same time, my brother emerged from monastic hiding and wrote II Trionfo della Santa Sede, and began to speak on it, establishing a name for himself that would be the foundation of his career. As he rose through the ranks of _ _Rome__, apparently without being tainted by anything there, I wrote to him of my own despair even at the politics of _ _Spain__, and he encouraged me to do as I pleased with my life. Eventually I gathered the courage to request the position of abbot at what is now my abbey. I had dined there many times and spent time with the monks, and knew the former abbot, and was there at his death. It was an easy transition, and I was happy again, and marveled at how I had ever fully served G-d while in a state of misery, for is this world not created to be loved as a work of the L-rd? _

_My life from then was as you know it, until your arrival, though that did not at first bring a great change. Over the years many monasteries had been dissolved for one reason or another, and I had seen many monks come looking for lodgings, Benedictine and non. You I saw as another child of the world, of mixed parentage, heritage, and culture. How naïve I was, to think there was not something greater in you, though you were in the first year a delight in the earnestness to which you took to your chores. _

_You will perhaps recall the conversation we had some months ago concerning your work with the people. As to the rumors being spread about you working miracles on the sick populace, I had my doubts for the same reason that you denied them being miracles – people are easier to take to superstition than scientific fact. How strange, for a man of faith to say that, but it was nonetheless true and we both know that some of the miracles you worked were mere coincidences of science and matter, and your wonderful herb garden, which I fear will whither away in your absence. I was not surprised when you turned down the Priory, but I was saddened in the guilty way that I would see less of you, as you were so often out with the people, doing your work there and not within the monastery walls. _

_I do not know how the talk of miracles reached the abbey gates, but it does not take much of a guess that it could have been any brother passing on information they heard. There were those you should know that spoke against you, but I will withhold their names, saying that you were proclaiming yourself a miracle worker. These claims were so easily dismissed without even your notice; the townspeople denied you made such claims, assigning it all to G-d and medicine, and no fault could be found. I thought then, "L-rd, if you would see fit to continue Brother Grégoire on this path, he would do much good for the poor of the coast." It was as if I already saw ahead, but looking back, it was the old cynicism of my years in _ _Rome__ that prepared me for it. _

_It was in innocence that the matter of your yearly inheritance and its use as charity was uncovered. A certain person along the chain of people in the banker's employ (whose name, again, I will leave out for the sake of their soul) happened to mention it in confession to their priest, and that priest told the bishop, and the bishop wrote to me. _

_I confess I understood your motives completely. Your brother's advice was sound; handle your own money and give it as you see fit rather than put it in the pockets of the church, where it might disappear. (Your brother and I see with the same eyes here) However that is not the Rule, and I must and do take the Rule seriously, so I knew you could not escape punishment, but I hoped that it would simply be a matter of confession, punishment, repentance, and absolution, and some rearranging of the financials with your brother in England. I told the bishop that he would never see your entire fortune, which he did seek, for I knew enough of the world to know that your brother would simply freeze the funds, and be right to do so. I thought that would temper his thirst. I shall never know if it would; the events that followed took us on another path entirely. _

_The revelation of the cilicium was devastating to me. It was very noble and pious of you, and meant only for the best intentions, and to some extent brought out the best in us, but the worst of us as well. I have no doubt that had you died from your injuries, you would have been taken to Rome and canonized as quickly as possible, but G-d forgive me, I could not see a life so young snuffed out by a simple misunderstanding. My excommunication was the only way to protect you from _ _Rome__, be you alive or dead, without damning your soul. _

_You are not damned. There is no stain on your soul, and you should go forth and live a pious life without fear because of what I wrote on a document. I did not mean half the words on them; it was a protective measure. I bless you in thoughts and prayers every day and will continue to do so, and I doubt anyone touched by your presence here at the abbey would do otherwise. _

_I will tell you one final thing, which I cannot properly account for. On the day the infection was discovered, a week after the punishment, the doctor reopened his own stitches and you bled terribly, so much that we had to collect it in a basin beneath your bed. Feeling ill myself, and knowing you were close to death, I wandered to the herbarium, even though I could make nearly as much sense of the plants as you could, but I was looking for a little ginger for my beer. There was a monk there I did not recognize, and oddly, I did not become as alarmed as I should have been at seeing an unfamiliar person in the abbey, though I did question him. He said he was a friend of yours, a fellow Englishman. He had a beard and spoke Latin in a strange accent, if that is any significance to you. I asked him if he would pray with us, as the bell had just rung for Vespers, and he said he would pray for you, but that he was sure that by G-d's Grace you would live. We walked to the chapel together, but somehow I lost him along the way, and never saw him again. I am not overly inclined to question this event, for I was so overjoyed with the news that I felt I had good reason to believe, and lo, even now I do not entirely question whether you survived the journey. _

_Go and do as you will. If you ever see fit to forgive me for my sins to you, I would be most honored. Go with G-d, Brother Grégoire, who will always be my brother in Christ. _

_Abbot Francesco Chiaramonti _

When the doctor was finished, he saw that to his surprise, Grégoire's eyes were still opened and aware. "That is it."

Grégoire nodded. "My mind ... is not fully aware."

"You've been ill for a long time, Grégoire. You need to rest and recover."

"I have a request, but I feel it is an imposition on your time, Dr. Maddox."

Maddox smiled. "I'm partially retired, Grégoire. Go ahead."

"Will you come tomorrow, and read it again?"

Dr. Maddox smiled. "Of course."

...Next Chapter - Demons in the Night


	16. Demons in the Night

Manner of Devotion

by DJ Clawson

"_Everybody likes to go their own way--to choose their own time and manner of devotion."_

_Jane Austen, Mansfield Park_

Author's Note: My policy: Update twice a week or when a chapter reaches 5-10 comments, whichever comes first.

_Pemberley Shades_ is printed and is being shipped to me. You have about a week left on the preorder sale.

www (dot) laughingmanpublications (dot) com / preorder.htm

* * *

Chapter 16 – Demons in the Night 

As the storm continued into the night, Darcy watched Grégoire fall asleep after his evening dose of opium. He did not head to his room, even though he was tired. He saw no reason to get into his bed without Elizabeth, when he needed her so badly. Instead he nodded off in the chair in Grégoire's room, sleeping uncomfortably for some time before he heard glass smashing, and was instantly awake, his eyes turning to the hazy source.

The glass on the table beside the bed had been knocked over and shattered on the floor. Grégoire, in a shirt and bedclothes, had attempted to stand up, and failed, hitting the ground and taking his sheets with him.

"Grégoire!" Darcy grabbed him by both arms and hoisted him back up. "You're not supposed to be – "

Grégoire spit in his face and tried to break free. He was not at all successful except in disturbing Darcy, who had to loosen his grip and wipe the water off his face. Grégoire's eyes were bloodshot and wild, and with his beard and unkempt hair, he looked unwell. "Let me go!" He said something else in gibberish as well – it was probably Latin, but the sort of Latin Darcy could recognize, that of prayers. "Please, let me go!"

"Grégoire, I would gladly let you – "

"You can't do this to me!" his brother screamed, pounding his fists into Darcy's chest. "_Permissum mihi vado!_"

"You're not well," Darcy said with a quiet forcefulness as his brother pounded futilely on his chest. "You have to sit back down."

"_Adepto a mihi, vos filius of a meretricis!_ He left me! Everyone has left me!"

"I am here," Darcy said. "I will stay here. The others – "

"_You did this to me!_ You bastard, I was happy!" Grégoire cried. "I was so happy ..." There was madness in his watery eyes. "So happy."

Darcy was getting a little desperate, and hoped someone had heard them, because he could hardly leave his brother in this condition to find a servant to wake Maddox. "You were beating yourself to death!"

"How do you know what it is, pain? It brings us closer to G-d –" He went almost limp for a moment, and Darcy succeeded in lifting him back up on the bed so he was at least sitting. "Even when ... there's so much of it – "

"You need to lie back down!"

"_Subsisto is!_ Stop telling me what I need! I didn't need father's money, I didn't need it from you, I told you to stop it, now you're going to kill me like you killed George – "

Darcy swallowed his first reaction, and instead said, "Grégoire, listen to me. You're sick – "

"I'm not sick! Just because I want to be a pious person, that makes me sick –" He grabbed Darcy's face. "I can see into your eyes. You're just hiding – you are afraid. _Ego sum non! I am not afraid!_" He pulled back, and swung what was obviously meant to be a punch, but it was slow and weak and Darcy easily caught it.

He saw the red staining the shirt. "You're popping your stitches. You want to kill yourself?"

"Yes! Would that make you happy?" Grégoire said, struggling under Darcy's increasingly firm grip "Napoleon's soldiers couldn't kill me, the church couldn't kill me; you want to try?"

Darcy did the only think he could think of, which was to kick over the table with all of the metal instruments, which clattered in a loud enough noise to be noticed by anyone nearby. "No one wants you dead." He pushed him down again, and Grégoire cried out; maybe he _was_ really killing him.

"Mr. Darcy," said a voice from behind him. "What is – Oh goodness."

"Get the doctor up. _Now_," he said without looking back at the servant. "And bring someone to help me in the meantime." He turned back to Grégoire, who was still managing to struggle. "I will save you from yourself."

"The abbot said that. Right before he cast me out. Grégoire the rich bastard can't be seen in the house of G-d!" He was weakening, having done more in the last few minutes than in weeks. "I saw him. I saw the abbot, I saw the abbot in Munich, there was a terrible fire – he said something about a forge – I am not to be hammered!" He cried, "G-d forgive me, what good does G-d's forgiveness do? Am I to live or die?"

"Live," Darcy said as two servants swarmed the room, and after having recovered from the sight of a bleeding madman screaming at Mr. Darcy, helped him hold down Grégoire's limbs.

"Demons! Oh G-d, please – I am to be forgotten and now damned?"

"You are not damned," Darcy said. "You are just delirious – "

"_Vos es totus everto ex abyssus!_" he screamed. "_Diabolus genitus!_ Where is my cross? Where is the Merciful G-d?"

To that, Darcy did not know the answer, fortunately, Dr. Maddox rushed into the room and he didn't have to. The doctor was still tying his bed robe. "Oh dear. Give me a moment." He looked at the instruments spilled everywhere. "Give me two."

"He's bleeding, Maddox!"

"I know! I know!" Dr. Maddox knelt on the ground and collected his things. "Candle!" One of the servants brought him a candle, which he held under a spoon, but Darcy could only see it from the edges of his vision, so utterly distracted. It smelled like something burning, which was appropriate, until at last Dr. Maddox produced a cloth and put it over Grégoire's screaming mouth.

"Breathe," he said, which was not an order that even his patient could disobey. In fact, Grégoire was gasping, and breathed very deep, collapsing quickly onto the bed stained with his own blood. Maddox removed the cloth and put a hand on Grégoire's now-still forehead. "He has no fever, at least. Turn him over."

With care Darcy and the servants flipped Grégoire over. The shirt he wore buttoned in the back, and it was easy to get it open. Dr. Maddox had his tools ready now and looked at the wounds as more light was brought to them. "He only managed to pop a few. You may want to turn away, Mr. Darcy," he said, threading his needle.

"I won't leave him."

"I don't want two patients," Dr. Maddox said with his usual calm. "Just turn around."

Darcy did as he asked, not relinquishing his hold on Grégoire's hand as he waited for Dr. Maddox to work. It was very brief, and Dr. Maddox called for hot water and various other things from his lab, handing the keys to his manservant. "He will be all right."

"He wasn't all right a few minutes ago."

"He had a lot of opium and probably a bad dream." He looked up at Darcy, trying to read his face. "Whatever he said to you, he did not mean it."

"He wanted to strike me. He tried."

"Why not? I'd be rather angry if I was him and you were the closest person available." Seeing this was not entirely doing the job, he added, "He holds himself to an impossible standard and we in turn unintentionally do the same. He's only human, Darcy. Let him be angry for a little while. What else has he to do?"

The manservant arrived with the ingredients and the others with the hot water and dishes, and Dr. Maddox carefully mixed a tea that smelled familiar. Grégoire, who was slowly returning to consciousness, was approached by a soft-spoken Dr. Maddox. "Please drink this. It will help you sleep."

For whatever reason – probably pure exhaustion – Grégoire did not resist, and swallowed it in full. He took another cup, and then settled back on the pillow, not to stir again. Dr. Maddox dragged Darcy out of the room. "Let someone else watch him."

"I can't possibly – "

"You can possibly leave him for a few hours," Dr. Maddox insisted. "If you want, I'll keep watch."

"You've done enough."

"I have a patient who thinks otherwise. Now go, and at least clean yourself up a bit."

Darcy could hardly take it as an insult; his sleeves were bloodied from holding down and practically fighting Grégoire. "May I – this is terrible of me, but may I have some of that tea?"

Dr. Maddox replied, "Of course."

After a bath and a cup of that soothing concoction, Darcy finally slid into bed. He had taken care to wash off all of the grime underneath his fingertips from the fight, but they still did not look clean. He held them to the light until he slowly dropped off into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

In the morning the rain abated, and as London began to dry, Darcy braced himself to greet his brother. Not that he was afraid for himself – in fact, he had no idea if Grégoire would recall the incident – but it remained unsettling nonetheless. And that Dr. Maddox had been witness to it – well, the doctor had surely seen stranger things than a delirious patient. 

He did not dream of abandoning his responsibilities to his brother, even for a morning. He dallied only through breakfast with Mrs. Maddox (Dr. Maddox had just gone to sleep) in which almost nothing was said finding the door closed. The servant instructed him that Grégoire was in confession, and after a few minutes, a man who was obviously a priest emerged. "Father. I am Grégoire's brother, Mr. Darcy."

"Father Leblanc."

"How is my brother this morning?" It came out satisfactorily emotionless.

"With G-d's will, he's less burdened," said the priest, and excused himself. It only then occurred to Darcy that if Grégoire had said everything in confession, then the priest knew everything of the events previous to this.

Swallowing, Darcy entered Grégoire's chambers. The linen had been changed, as well as his clothing, and he laid on his side, awake and alert. "Good morning."

"I apologize for my actions," Grégoire said, never one to mince words, especially when he felt he was the guilty party. "I did not know what I said."

"While I think you did for some of it, it was because it needed to be said," Darcy replied. "Would I have known to handle things differently, I would have. My road was paved with good intentions ... and we all know where that leads." He changed the subject, mainly because he couldn't bear it anymore, and Grégoire also did not seem so inclined. "With any luck, Elizabeth and the children will arrive today. They must still be in horrible suspense about your condition and will be relieved to find you very much alive." He paced as he spoke. "I was thinking – perhaps you would want to be shaved before you see the children. Otherwise, my younger ones might not recognize you at all."

"That is true," Grégoire said with a smile. "But I could not burden the Maddox servants – "

"Nonsense," Darcy said. "You have no idea how good it will feel to lose a beard you did not intend to grow."

Slowly, and without aid, Darcy shaved his brother's beard, the sides, though there was some issue over whether those would be done. No, Grégoire was not willing to look like a sensible person just yet and had his sideburns shaved smooth. He had lost weight in his ordeal, and was not the picture of health, but years were taken off his appearance with the hair removed. Darcy was no hairdresser and the hair on his head was left untouched, including the fuzzy remains of what had been his tonsure. "I am no longer allowed to have the crown of the church."

"'Heavy is the head that wears the crown,'" his brother consoled him. "Shakespeare. The greatest poet of all time. You may wish to read up on him someday."

Grégoire laughed. It was a wonderful thing to hear.

* * *

Darcy sent for his townhouse and the Bingley house to be opened, but his family came straight to the Maddoxes. There was no shortage of tears as Darcy embraced his long-lost wife, as if five days of separation had been months. "He's alive. He will recover." He added more softly into her ear, so the children could not hear, "He is having a hard time. He has been tossed from the church and no one knows quite what to say to him." He added tearfully, "Not even me." 

"The Bingleys are here," she said, kissing him in reassurance. The pain must have been etched on his face. "They did not want to swamp the place."

"He will be happy to see them, I'm sure," he said.

"So he is awake?"

"Yes, but he tires easily, and cannot be moved." He would not release his embrace quite yet, setting on her shoulder and smelling her hair. "I missed you." _I needed you_.

"I am here now," she said. She laced her fingers with his as she stepped back. "And what do you ladies have to say to your Papa?"

"Hello, Papa!" they said, and all curtseyed – Cassandra doing her best attempt at it, this time managing not to fall over.

Behind them, Geoffrey emerged and bowed. "Father."

"Can we see Uncle Grégoire?"

"Is he still sick?"

"Can he play with us?"

His children's incessant questioning was not an annoyance. If anything, it was a relief. "You may see him – one at a time. He is weak from his illness so do not overtax him. Now, in order – "

"Awww!" Anne and Sarah said. "You always do that and Geoffrey always wins!"

"I did not say in _which_ order of age," he said. "Cassandra, would you like to see your uncle?"

Cassandra Darcy, who had not seen him in two years and was unlikely to remember anything about him, was nonetheless overeager to see the man they were all talking about. "Yes!" She lifted her arms, and Darcy picked her up and kissed her. "I missed you."

"I missed you too, my darling," he said. "Geoffrey, watch your sisters. Oh, and I believe Frederick is in his room."

Geoffrey nodded, leaving Darcy to escort his wife and youngest child into the sickroom. Grégoire had had to sit up for some time to be shaved, but whatever exhaustion was apparent on his face at first dissolved with his smile. " Elizabeth. And is this Cassandra? I ... can hardly recognize her, she's grown so much."

"Uncle Grégoire!" she cried out, somewhat mangling his French name, which sounded more like "Greywar" than "Gregwa." Apparently she did remember him, and delighted in playing with his rosary beads as Elizabeth inquired as to his health.

"In the good care of Dr. Maddox," he said, "and, I understand, a Dr. Bertrand and a Mr. Stevens. I don't remember it, but the Prince of Wales was lacking almost his entire staff that night, or so I am told."

"And yet the monarchy survives," Elizabeth said.

"Much to the frustration of Parliament," Darcy added.

The children were paraded each in turn, and Grégoire was no less happy to see each one of them. "I remember when you were born," he said to all three daughters, having had the fortune of being present at each of their births. "What is this bracelet?"

Anne held it up. Her wrist was barely large enough to wear it even with it bent in, and he squinted to read the inscription. "'To my darling Anne.'"

"It was my mother's," Darcy said proudly, "from our father."

"It looks beautiful on you," Grégoire said to his niece.

Geoffrey was last. "Hello, Uncle Grégoire."

"Do you want me to say all the obvious things about how much you've grown?"

"No, sir."

His uncle grinned. "Then I will not. But you are a sight. And I hope I will never be a 'sir' to you, nephew," he said, his voice dragging. By now Dr. Maddox was awake, and announced that it was time for them to let his patient rest. Only with Grégoire's reassurance was Darcy willing to leave the Maddox house for the first time since his arrival and ride to his own, where his staff was waiting to greet him and wish his brother well. He was not feeling particularly sociable, and nodded politely over a quick luncheon while Nurse took care of the children. Elizabeth, sensing his anxiety, sat with him alone in their chambers.

"He blames me," he said at last. "He said it when he was out his senses from exhaustion and drugs, but it is true."

"Darcy," Elizabeth said, taking his hand, "he does not blame you. He is not capable of such a thing."

"I have done all the things he has accused me of. I removed him twice from abbeys where he was happy, and ruined his monastic career by insisting on sending him a fortune every year and then insisting he hide it from his abbot. I have ruined his life."

"You have _saved_ his life," she had no hesitation in saying. "We both remember the boy we found in that awful monastery in France. Whatever has befallen him since, I am still grateful we found him and persuaded him to leave. Bavaria had nothing to do with you – it was a matter of politics. And this," she said. "You were honoring your father's wishes. You were trying to protect him."

"So easy to explain," he said. "So logical. And yet he was on death's door when he arrived in Town. He can't sit up for long. He can't stand – "

" – all of which will pass – "

"He has nowhere to go. He has nothing."

Elizabeth leaned into him, letting him rest on her shoulder as they sat on the sofa. "He has us."

... Next Chapter - The Adventures of Mugen-san


	17. The Adventures of Mugensan

Manner of Devotion

by DJ Clawson

"_Everybody likes to go their own way--to choose their own time and manner of devotion."_

_Jane Austen, Mansfield Park_

Author's Note: My policy: Update twice a week or when a chapter reaches 5-10 comments, whichever comes first.

_Pemberley Shades_ is printed and is being shipped to me. You have about a week left on the preorder sale.

www (dot) laughingmanpublications (dot) com / preorder.htm

* * *

Chapter 17 – The Adventures of Mugen-san 

The Bingleys were welcomed the next day, and Grégoire greeted them with the same affection with which he greeted his nephew and nieces.

"How is he?" Bingley asked Darcy as the children took their turns.

"Not well," he said, and that was enough. Charles Bingley nodded as if he understood everything, and went with him into the study as their wives chatted.

To Bingley's surprise, when Dr. Maddox offered them brandy, Darcy actually accepted a glass. The doctor was his usual calm self and if he made any note of it, he gave no indication. Darcy was a quiet mess, with dark circles around his eyes. It was not unusual for Darcy to suffer in silence when he could do nothing (or did not know how to do something) for a loved one, and Bingley searched for something to say, but found nothing. It would pass, as Grégoire grew stronger.

"Bingley," Brian Maddox said as he entered, "hello. Have you seen Mugen?"

"He said he wanted to walk to London. I hope nothing has become of him, but I assume if something had, we would have heard some news of it, considering how he's so distinctive."

Brian actually looked less concerned than Bingley. "He's probably fine, then. You didn't give him any money for the road, did you?"

"Of course I did. For emergencies."

"Well, you have your answer. He is off spending it." He smiled. "He will be fine, I assure you. Though, I hope he was not any trouble while we were in Spain."

"No, none at all. He spent most of the time fishing, or at Lambton."

"You realize the next generation of Lambton bastards will be mysteriously moon-eyed," Darcy said.

"Darcy! I'm not going to dignify that with an answer," Bingley said, noticing his friend had drained his glass. "Anyway, he's good with the children.

"For a homicidal thug."

Bingley turned to Darcy, then Brian, who only replied, "I won't deny it." Dr. Maddox kept his eyes on his paper as a servant entered the room.

"The Duchess of ----shire has arrived, Dr. Maddox."

"The who?" Bingley said.

"I think her title amply described her. Doctor, we aught not to get in the way of your profession."

"She is not patient," Dr. Maddox said, putting down his paper and pushing glasses back down on his nose. "Has she given a reason?"

"No, sir, but she is talking with your wife."

Dr. Maddox excused himself, passing them all by to see to his unexpected guest.

"Have you ever met the Duchess of ----shire?" Bingley asked Darcy.

"Unfortunately," was his reply as they followed Dr. Maddox, and were met with a very loud shriek from a lady stuffed poorly into her bodice, standing in the sitting room with Mrs. Maddox.

"I know you! You're that man who's always skulking around Charlton," said the apparent Duchess.

He bowed. "I am His Highness' physician, Your Grace."

"I did not know that! You've not been very public about it," she said. She was decked out as if she were about to head to a ball here herself, complete with diamonds and an oversized hat.

"I don't announce myself, madam," he said quietly. "I see you've met my wife. Allow me to introduce my brothers, Mr. Maddox and Mr. Bingley."

"How exotic a family you have," she said, looking at Brian, who was dressed in his normal outfit, his longer sword held in his right hand. "And Mr. Darcy! Don't go hiding behind the stairs! I remember your first Season!"

For she was indeed a bit older than Darcy, maybe in her mid-fifties. He did emerge with usual emotionless expression. "Your Grace," he bowed.

"You were such a shy little boy. Your poor father had to practically drag you to all the dances and yet you danced with no one!" If she was aware of the stifled laughter from the other men or Darcy's mortification, she cared not. "If I had not been already married, I would have begged your father to insist it upon you – why, you must have been not eighteen – I heard you had married – "

"_Mrs_. Darcy, yes," he said, cutting her off.

It was Caroline Maddox of all people who was Darcy's savior, "It has been an honor to grace us with your presence. Are you making some sort of inquiry?"

"Oh no! I was merely directed here by my little savior! Where did he – Mister – oh, his name is so strange, I can hardly expect to remember – "

"– Mugen?" Brian offered, for the lost Japanese man did appear in the doorway. His clothing was soiled from the road but he was not. In fact, for some reason, he had a gold chain around his neck. He bowed and removed his shoes, which made him considerably shorter, shorter than the Duchess.

"This wonderful Oriental – oh, I am very thankful!" She grabbed Mugen and pulled him into her full front, which he did not particularly struggle against, but did look a bit uncomfortable. "We were coming down the road – my carriage and my maids, of course – and we were attacked by bandits. Bandits! In these years of peace! I suppose they have nothing better to do now that they're not off killing Frenchmen. One of them was even in uniform. Anyway, I was terrified, and the coachman tried to fend them off of course, but he was no match for six men, and they demanded of me all of my little treasures – even my wedding ring! To take the ring off a widow's finger – I cannot imagine the gall of these men. I would have lost all of my traveling items which I intended for the theater next week, including a great many things precious to me, but then this man, Mr. Munin came out of _nowhere_ – _the woods_ it must have been – and attacked them – and him with only a sword and them with good English rifles. The same rifles that defeated Napoleon! In fact he just kicked most of them, and came out from it without a nick on his body." She turned to Mugen, who had no particular reaction. "Of course I was so very grateful – and he was so very muddy from the weather we'd been having, that I offered that he return with me and we would clean him up. Unfortunately we could not mend his Japaner fabrics, but he was a most honored guest! And now he insists I return him -"

"_Orewa, mascoto janai,_" Mugen said to Brian. (_I am not a pet_)

"So I've given him my husband's chain – he has no use for it and he didn't want to be buried with it, so why should it not go to my little Asiatic savior?" She grabbed Mugen again and kissed him, which he did not appreciate, and quickly slid out of her grasp, but with a mark on his lips as a battle scar. "I hope you will bring him to at least one ball while he is in the country."

"If he wishes," Brian said. "Your Grace."

"I know, I must be getting on – you all have things to do – but here is my card," she snapped her fingers and her maid handed it to Caroline, "and I insist that you come to dinner sometime now that I am in Town."

"We will try," Dr. Maddox said. "Thank you."

They said their good-byes, and the Duchess was shown out.

"You are in my debt, Mr. Darcy," Caroline said. "Or I will return the call and ask her all about your first Season. Just remember that if I ever have a favor to ask of you."

"I will remember," was all he said, and disappeared to check on his brother, and the rest of the men returned to Dr. Maddox's study.

"So," Brian said, "you came to the dashing rescue of a Duchess?"

Mugen shrugged, and opened his bag. "I fight. Not get many chances in England." He unceremoniously dumped a pile of jewelry and expensive trinkets on the desk. "How do you say – for money?"

"Interest?" Bingley said. "Goodness."

"I hope this was off the bandits," Brian said, "and not the Duchess' jewelry box when she wasn't looking."

"You take me for thief?" Mugen said. "Oh, you wait; _am_ thief."

"I take it you enjoyed the hospitality of Her Grace?" Dr. Maddox said.

"Fat women have best food," was his reply as the others inspected his treasure.

"Some of these have inscriptions," Bingley said. "They could possibly be returned if their owners are located."

Mugen looked at him coldly.

"How much gold do you need?" Brian said. "You'll just gamble it away anyway. And there may be rewards."

"Yes, rewards! He has a point, Mugen."

Mugen picked out a particularly pretty bracelet, with jade beads. "For Nadi-sama."

"She will appreciate it," Brian said.

The rest of the spoils were divided up into things that could perhaps be traced back to their owners and things that were just random items, which Mugen put back in his bag. He didn't make it halfway out the door until Georgiana Bingley came running down the hall. "Mugen-san! Where were you?"

"Being kissed by hog," he replied.

* * *

It was a while before Bingley had a chance to speak privately with his wife. The Maddox house was sizable for Town but no country estate. "How is he?" she asked. 

"Darcy or Grégoire?" he said with a sigh.

Jane took his hand encouragingly. "He tortures himself over his brother, who will mend in time. Dr. Maddox says so. He's been through the worst of it."

"The worst of it in physical," he replied. "What is he supposed to do now?"

"I don't know. What do they do in India?"

"Oh, he wouldn't –" He stopped. "Jane, I love you."

"I do hope so; we are married –" but she was interrupted by a kiss as he ran off to find that Grégoire's room was open for visitors. The children had each had their turn and then he was let to rest, but no matter what they said or did, he rose with what they now recognized was each monastic hour. His body was tuned that way and would not so easily give it up.

Bingley had seen Grégoire before, briefly, when bringing in his children. He closed the door behind him. "Hello, Grégoire."

"Mr. Bingley," Grégoire said.

"Are you too tired for a visitor? And be honest, or the doctor will have my head."

Grégoire smiled. "No. All I do is rest. Please, sit."

Bingley took a seat. "I wish you well, Grégoire. Darcy is ..."

"You can say it," Grégoire said. "I know him well enough. He is suffering."

"He is concerned."

"Everyone is concerned. I am all appreciation, but there are pains it does not relieve."

Bingley nodded. "Listen, you probably won't want to hear it because it's heathen, but while I was in India, I heard a story that apparently is very famous in the whole Orient – everyone I met had heard it, even Mugen. The versions differed a little bit, but it's – well, I wrote it down, and I don't have my notes with me, but I certainly heard it often enough – "

Grégoire nodded. "Please. I am unable to do much but listen."

"Well," Bingley said, settling himself into the chair. "I don't know the actual story – I heard many versions, as I said, but they were all basically the same. The first time, we had just docked and taken up at an inn in India, and each morning, a man with a shaved head came with a begging bowl, and of course I gave a little something, but after a few days, I had to wonder at it, so I asked Brian, and he said he was a monastic and they believed that begging was a way to salvation or something. So the next day I asked the monk what the path to salvation was, or what he thought it was, and instead he told me this story. It took a long time to tell and by the end I had almost forgotten why I'd asked it, but anyway, here it is.

"There was once a prince, a very long time ago, in India. He was part of their caste system, at the very top, and his father was a great king. His father and mother loved him very much and wished to shelter him from all of the horrors in the world, so they raised him in absolute splendor, so that he didn't even see someone old or sick until he left the palace and he could not tell what was the matter with them.

"After seeing people suffer, he decided to dedicate his life to finding a way to end human suffering. So he went into the woods, where these ascetic people lived. They sat all day in meditation, eating grass or dung or something, and starving themselves and depriving themselves of all pleasures. He did this to the point of almost death, and even though he had many disciples, he was not satisfied.

"And this is where the tale varies a bit, but apparently, he just got up and left that life when someone offered him food. One person said it was a little girl offering rice. The monk I spoke to first said he heard a woman tuning a harp and said that it had to be tuned just right, not too sharp or too flat. Either way, he had a revelation. The people who know this story and follow him – they are called Buddhists, because he was later called Buddha, but I'm skipping ahead – Anyway, he decided to devote himself to the Middle Way, which is to find the middle path so to speak, and not to live too luxuriously or too ascetically. So he went and washed himself and cleaned his hair for the first time in years and all of his ascetic disciples abandoned him, and he sat under this tree. I saw it, actually. It is very large, and it's called the Bodhi tree, and he sat under that and meditated and was tempted by the Devil many times, but each time he refused until he attained what they call Enlightenment, and that's why they call him Buddha, which means 'Awakened One.' He lived another fifty years or so, and by the end had thousands of disciples, and now his religion is all across the Orient, with perhaps millions of monks. I don't know if he really lived, but I met a man who claimed he had seen the case that contained a tooth of the Buddha, and he was very proud to have seen it. He left all kinds of teachings, some of which I wrote down, but as I said again, my notes are still a mess. And, well, that is it." He frowned, unsatisfied with his ending. He looked to Grégoire, who had not spoken through the entire telling, and had occasionally closed his eyes, but was now very much awake, if very still from exhaustion.

"Mr. Bingley," he said, "will you perhaps allow me, when I am recovered, to copy that story from your notes?"

"Yes, of course – No! Ridiculous, I'll do it myself. I have to sort them anyway. I'll have my man write it out so you can actually read it, too. Anyway, I know it's all pagan nonsense, but I don't know what else to say. It's that or the tiger story again."

"I've not heard the tiger story," Grégoire said, "but I admit I am tired now, and it is time for prayer. Thank you, Mr. Bingley. Thank you very much."

"– You're welcome," he said, shaking the hand that was offered to him. "Do you need the doctor or anything?"

"No, I just want to rest. Thank you."

Bingley rose and excused himself as Grégoire closed his eyes. As he shut the door, Bingley looked up at the anxious Darcy. "He'll be all right, you know," Bingley said. "He just has to find his own way. And no, you can't help him with that. It's the basic _principle_ of the thing, Darcy. Come now, you've had too much to drink."

"I've had a glass! What did they do to you in India?"

"They don't drink. Or eat cattle. We would all starve there, I'm sure."

"You may have your own obsessions, and even kept your own wild animals – after all, Mr. Maddox has Mugen – but if you cast your meat from your kitchen, I will never accept an invitation to dine at Kirkland again."

"Are you serious? My mouth was watering by the time we reached Hong Kong!" he said. "Did you know some of them are vegetarians?"

"What does that mean?"

"It means they can only eat vegetables, I think."

"My G-d!" Darcy said. "That can't be very healthy, can it?"

* * *

The final member of those who gathered around the former Brother Grégoire arrived just the very next day with her husband and child in a carriage with the colors of the earldom of Kincaid. Georgiana Kincaid would have leapt weeping into Darcy's arms had she not been holding her son as he assured her that yes, her little brother was alive and getting stronger every day. 

"We came as soon as we heard," Lord Kincaid said with concern.

"He will be very happy to see you," Elizabeth said.

Her prediction was not at all wrong. Nothing had cheered Grégoire to the extent of seeing his sister and holding his new nephew in his arms. As he was now healed enough to lie on his back, it was less considerable a feat, and there was a light on his face that they had not seen since his arrival, even when he saw the other children. He tickled his tummy, which little Robert took a serious liking to, and it seemed the Scots were not so inclined to bundle their children so tightly, so his limbs were free to squirm and kick. "You like that, don't you, little Robert?" Darcy and Elizabeth watched on from the doorway. "What a truly beautiful child, and so full of energy."

"He gets it from his father," Georgiana said. Lord Kincaid didn't deny it, a hand on his wife's back as she sat beside her brother.

"Can you grip my finger? Yes you can!" Grégoire laughed as he held out his finger and Robert tugged on it. "What a strong grip you have, Viscount Kincaid! What was the name of that Scots, the great king who fought the English?"

"Robert the Bruce," William Kincaid answered.

"Yes, that's the one."

"Was he not one of the very few Scottish kings who were not assassinated?" Darcy said.

"Yes," William said. "He lived a long and fruitful life, and did die in his bed ... of leprosy. Which, all things given, is I imagine a bit better than the lot of them."

"Well," Grégoire said, and crossed the baby, "that you should live a long and fruitful life – without the leprosy part."

Next Chapter ... Mary's Season


	18. Mary’s Season

Manner of Devotion

by DJ Clawson

"_Everybody likes to go their own way--to choose their own time and manner of devotion."_

_Jane Austen, Mansfield Park_

Author's Note: My policy: Update twice a week or when a chapter reaches 5-10 comments, whichever comes first. Thanks to Sidney for help with French in this chapter.

_Pemberley Shades_ has arrived and I am getting ready to ship copies out. The pre-order sale is until SUNDAY NIGHT. Buy now!

www (dot) laughingmanpublications (dot) com / preorder.htm

* * *

Chapter 18 – Mary's Season 

As Grégoire's health continued to recover, the Darcys and the Bingleys retreated to their respective houses; visiting every day (Georgiana and her son were a regular fixture at the Maddox house). Dr. Maddox read the abbot's letter to Grégoire no less than four times in total before his patient was well enough to begin reading himself. Bingley gave him everything he had, including a few books from the library, and Grégoire read them all, but very slowly. Most of his stay was still consumed with visitors and prayer, as his body continued to adhere to the monastic cycle that began at half past three in the morning and ended at eight at night. His pain medicine was continually reduced, though Dr. Maddox was relieved that Grégoire was no longer ashamed to ask for it when he needed it to sleep.

When he was able to sit up in a chair for a short while, they had a minor quandary of what to do about his dress. Grégoire's robes had been torched, as they were bloodied and infested with disease, and he had no right to wear them anyway. He found the English method of dress scandalously immodest because of its tightness (and had no shame in saying it, to Darcy's consternation and Elizabeth's secret delight at the expression on her husband's face). Brian Maddox, who was no stranger to dressing in a bizarre fashion, provided him with a suitable option. Nadezhda happily knitted him a long brown tunic, and he eventually consented to at least a cloth obi belt (leather was too ostentatious), and he wore an undershirt that was soft on his scarred skin. He agreed to grow his sides but not all the way down and far too wide, so that in the end he looked more like an itinerant worker than a man of enormous wealth and education. But that seemed to satisfy him and no one was willing to do anything otherwise. He still had his cross and his rosary so his affiliation was obvious enough, but his tonsure was gone, lost to a thicket of brown hair only slightly curlier than Darcy's.

Nearly two weeks since his arrival in England, he had some surprise guests. Mary and Joseph Bennet traveled from Longbourn, sending their regards from Mr. and Mrs. Bennet (who no longer traveled) and Mr. and Mrs. Townsend. They happened to arrive on the day when his stitches were being pulled, and had to wait some time to see him, but Mary passed it with Elizabeth and Mrs. Maddox as Joseph played with Frederick. It could not be said so easily that Mary Bennet had livened up, but she no longer had the same tendency to go on moralistic rants, as they bored her most important audience, her son. Instead she'd been forced to tell more interesting tales as part of his education, and so expanded her own reading tastes to find them. She did not read gothic novels, but she read Shakespeare as often as Hannah Moore, and there was always the comings and goings of Hertfordshire to chat about.

Meanwhile, Dr. Bertrand had been called in to help make absolutely sure nothing went wrong, as the work was rather extensive, to the point where they gave Grégoire a dose of medicine. He bled a little, but said nothing, and was already drifting off as they dressed the wounds. "An excellent patient as always, Grégoire," Dr. Maddox said. "He is quite a tough man," he said to Bertrand as they exited the room, letting him rest.

"Indeed," Dr. Bertrand said, and if he had anything else to add, it was interrupted by the appearance of an eight-year-old boy with black hair and slightly olive skin.

"Can I see Mr. Grégoire now?"

"No, Mr. Bennet. Sadly, you will have to wait a bit longer, as he is resting. And where are your manners?" Dr. Maddox said, and bowed to him, and the little Bennet returned the bow. "Mr. Bennet, allow me to present my colleague, Dr. Andrew Bertrand. Andrew, this is Joseph Bennet.

"_Is he nice?_" Joseph asked in Italian.

"_I like to think I am_," Bertrand replied, to Joseph's horror.

Dr. Maddox did not hide his smile. "Do not presume there are none so learned in the language arts as you, young Master Bennet."

"_Dites-lui que je suis désolé,_" (_Tell him I'm sorry_) Joseph said shyly in French to Dr. Maddox. 

"_Vous pouvez le dire vous meme_," (_You can say it yourself_) Dr. Bertrand replied. Joseph looked almost like he was about to run away, but Bertrand only smiled. "I have a French name, you know. And all of the civilized world must speak it, apparently."

"Do you know Latin?"

"I had to learn it for my exams at University," he replied amiably.

"It's _hard_."

Dr. Bertrand kneeled down to his level. "I did not know four languages when I was your age, Mr. Bennet. If I had tried, I would have found it _very_ hard."

"Joseph!" came a cry as Mary Bennet hurried into the room, curtseying to both of them. "Dr. Maddox, I apologize – "

He waved it off. "It is all right. This is Dr. Bertrand, who is assisting me with Grégoire. And the Prince."

She curtseyed again as she pulled her son to her. "I am sorry if my son interrupted your conversation. It is a pleasure to meet you."

He bowed. "You as well, Mrs. Bennet."

"Miss Bennet," she corrected with a shy smile, and excused herself, dragging Joseph with her.

"Goodbye!" he waved as he had to follow his mother down the hall.

Dr. Bertrand waved back. "Father's Spanish?"

"Italian," Dr. Maddox said, then slapped his forehead. "Oh, I forgot. I was supposed to say he was an Englishman who died in the war."

Bertrand nodded. "Of course."

"You understand."

"I never heard otherwise. All kinds of things happened in the war. All sorts of confusion."

"Yes," Dr. Maddox said. "You wanted that recipe. If you will wait a moment, I need to retrieve it."

"Of course."

Dr. Maddox left Bertrand and climbed the flight of stairs, only to find his wife hiding in a doorway at the top. "Invite him to dinner!"

"What?"

"I said, invite him to dinner! Are you deaf?"

"No. All right, I'll invite him to dinner. But I already know he can't do it tonight. Regent's schedule and all that."

She frowned. "Well, what about tomorrow?"

"I don't know his whole social schedule."

"Well, _ask him!_"

"...All right," he said, not seeing a reason to put up an argument with his wife. As he reached for his laboratory keys, he said, "May I ask why?"

"Because Miss Bennet is only staying in Town for a week."

"So?"

She shook her head. "Your sex is so dense in the head I wonder sometimes if there's any brain up there at all or you're all moving on instincts." Before he could reply, she hurried down the stairs and rejoined her female guests.

Dr. Maddox shrugged to himself, unlocked the laboratory door, quickly wrote down the recipe, and relocked it before returning to the main level. "Here you go. Oh, and are you available for dinner tomorrow night? Mrs. Maddox _insists_ on inviting you."

No right-minded bachelor turned up a good meal. "Thank you. Usual time I assume."

"Yes."

They said their goodbyes, and Dr. Maddox turned curiously to the sitting room, where he could hear the Bennet sisters and his wife talking, but not make out the words. Never one to intrude on a female conversation, he made his way to the parlor next to Grégoire's room and found the door already opened, and Joseph Bennet sitting in the chair beside Grégoire's bed.

"Huh," was all he said, as the plan slowly came to him. He shook his head. "Women."

* * *

Dr. Bertrand did return for dinner the following evening, to find Darcy in the parlor. "Dr. Bertrand." 

"Mr. Darcy."

"I really am in your debt for what you've done for my brother."

"He is a fighter, Mr. Darcy, despite his former profession."

That did not elicit a smile from Mr. Darcy, but as Bertrand had quickly learned, Darcy almost never smiled. The best he had ever seen was a little half-grin. "We have quite a party tonight. My wife and her sister are here, as well as the other Maddoxes of course. Speaking of which – "

They were joined from behind by Brian Maddox, who was wearing black robes and only his short sword, and the Oriental, Mr. Mugen. "Dr. Bertrand. Darcy."

They exchanged greetings as the door to Grégoire's room opened and a young man emerged, maybe ten and four by his height. From inside, there were sounds of talking in very broken Latin, between a child (presumably, Joseph Bennet) and Grégoire.

"Dr. Bertrand, if you have not already met him, allow me to introduce my nephew, Mr. Wickham," Darcy said proudly, and Mr. Wickham bowed and left with only a mumbled, shy greeting.

"He is your nephew by your wife?" Dr. Bertrand, trying to draw the logical conclusion.

"Yes," Mr. Darcy said. "And in other ways, but there are many former Bennets. My wife has four sisters, one of whom is married to Charles Bingley, whose sister is Mrs. Maddox."

"So we are all connected," Brian said. "Distantly."

"Four sisters? What about brothers?"

"None. Just five daughters of Mr. Bennet, who lives in Hertfordshire."

Dr. Bertrand knew enough about English property law to see the problem there. "They are close in age?"

"One after another. And at one point were all eager to be married."

"If you want the real story, you'll have to ask Mr. Bingley, who unfortunately isn't here tonight. Darcy won't tell it because apparently it involves a rejected proposal."

Darcy replied only with a cold stare and then went on to ignore Brian's comment by looking out the window as Dr. Maddox joined them. "Dinner is served. Or is about to be. Honestly I have no idea how this house runs."

Andrew Bertrand liked dining with the Maddoxes. Dr. Maddox, when he was not shy or overly formal as a doctor to a patient, was a cheerful man, obviously very happy with his station in life. His wife was a bit haughty, and had no hesitation at teasing her husband, but never in a malicious way as couples so often did. How they had ever come together, Bertrand had no idea. Mr. Maddox, despite his appearance, was an overly gregarious Englishman, far more talkative than his brother and with far more to tell that did not involve some kind of medical procedure. His wife, Princess Nadezhda, was quiet at first, and then quite open when not among strangers and had no hesitation expressing her opinion through her accent. She seemed to endlessly exchange glances with her very loving husband, and so the foursome made for good company.

Tonight they were joined by Mr. and Mrs. Darcy. Mrs. Darcy was lively and witty, and her husband was silent but by no means cruel. He was just suffering the obvious strain of having a brother at death's door, for who he obviously cared immensely. The addition to the table was Miss Bennet, who did resemble her sister in some ways, but was not the same at all.

It did not take him very long to figure it out. However, he looked up to Daniel Maddox, and trusted him not to throw him into the fire. Besides, if Andrew had stayed at home, his parents would have willingly done so. He had sat at many dinners with many friends of his parents and their young daughters.

But, as he quickly discovered, Miss Bennet was not fawning over him nor disgusted with any parental figure dragging her along. Her manners were mild, but she was not silent, and not afraid to speak up on any matter religious. He judged she bordered on Evangelical – certainly no Methodist – or had been at some point in her life from her quotations, but was not as obnoxious about it as older women he knew. From what he gathered from snippets of conversation, she had studied in a French seminary at some point (and if he had to guess, it would have been about nine years ago). Usually women either engaged themselves in social concerns or surface religion, but she seemed to have a real scholarship, even on traditional Catholic texts. Andrew Bertrand, a lapsed Catholic by circumstance, was impressed.

He judged the dinner went well. If anyone was pushing Mary on, it was subtle, or she was reluctant to comply. She could, however, be engaged. Unfortunately it ended with dessert, as the usual after dinner entertainments did not interest the suffering Darcys, and he already knew that Princess Nadezhda never sang or played in mixed company (she was very modest), and Mugen usually left to do whatever it was he did at night after saying several things in Japanese that Brian refused to translate to anyone. Dr. Bertrand had to leave anyway, to attend His Highness at Carlton, so the party was dissolved without the usual port and gossip, and he left to go to work, hoping there would be no major medical disasters tonight. He already knew his mind would be elsewhere.

* * *

For Mary Bennet, who was housing with the Darcys, her mind was not on its usual track as well. She held her tongue until she saw Joseph to bed before unleashing her fury on her sister, whom she found reading in the library. 

"Do not ever subject me to that again!"

"What?" Elizabeth said innocently. "Was the company so objectionable? I thought you liked the Maddoxes."

"You know very well what I mean," Mary said, sitting down in a huff.

"If he was really so unappealing, then yes, you have no reason to see him again except by happenstance. However, you did not seem so inclined during the meal."

"I was being polite!"

"There were many guests at the table, all near or distant relatives, with whom you could make conversation or none at all if you really wished. Darcy didn't say a word. Nonetheless I saw otherwise."

Mary just fumed.

"Please, if you do object to Dr. Bertrand, I would be most interested in what you have to say. I would wish any distraction these days."

"I – I have no _objections_, but you know that is not the point."

"If you have no objections, then there is no point."

"I'm a mother," she said, "with a _child_."

"If that caused him any disquiet, he showed none. In fact, from Caroline's account, he seems to like Joseph."

"And how long do you think the story about his father will hold up?"

Elizabeth smirked. "Considering the doctor's intelligence, I doubt it was believed in the first place. After all, if you had married an Englishman before the war and were carrying his child, why did you not take his name? So you studied in France and came home with a child. His origins _are_ French. Until he brokers an objection, it is not fair to assume he opposes choices that were made years ago."

Mary said nothing, but her face was not the emotionless page that it normally was.

"Mary, I may sound like Mama for a moment, but our father will not live forever, and Joseph needs a father. He might even _like_ one. Have you ever asked him about it?"

"He knows his father is never coming to England."

"Have you ever asked him if he would like one who is around?"

She turned coldly to Elizabeth. "He is a child."

"That does not mean he is without opinions, fleeting as they may be sometimes," she said. "Ask him, Mary. If not because of Dr. Bertrand, just because you should know what his thoughts are. You can at least do that quite harmlessly."

Mary stood, effectively announcing her exit. "Perhaps you are right – about speaking to Joseph. I will sleep on it. But please – tell me next time."

"I would have, but you would have objected, and we would not be having this conversation," Elizabeth said with a smile. "Good night, Mary."

"Good night, Lizzy."

Her anger largely abated and somewhat turned to confusion, Mary went to her room and laid down, but it was a long time before she found sleep.

* * *

Elizabeth Darcy had only one thing preventing her from finding sleep, and it was her need to talk to her husband, whether he liked it or not. He could use the distraction, and much to her suspicion, he was lying awake in bed. She crawled into his ready embrace, nestled again him. "I spoke to Mary." 

"I've no doubt. I am a bit surprised that I could not hear the conversation from here."

She turned over, so she could face him. "She would listen to reason about speaking to Joseph."

"And Dr. Bertrand?"

"You ask this of _me?_ You know I am a terrible judge of other people's affections."

She giggled and kissed him. "She did not deny being interested. And he seemed to be in the same party. They found mutual conversation, which for Mary is impressive." She sighed. "She still carries the shame of France around with her. Nothing I can say can change that."

"She is happy with Joseph."

"She loves her son as I love all my children. But that is different from the way I love _you_," she said. "Does she not deserve that?"

Darcy considered before answering. "I have learned as of late that prolonged and unnecessary penance can do more harm than good."

"Indeed. And it would be most prodigious for there to be yet another doctor in the family."

Next Chapter...His Royal Highness


	19. His Royal Highness

Manner of Devotion

by DJ Clawson

"_Everybody likes to go their own way--to choose their own time and manner of devotion."_

_Jane Austen, Mansfield Park_

Author's Note: My policy: Update twice a week or when a chapter reaches 5-10 comments, whichever comes first.

* * *

Chapter 19 – His Royal Highness 

"Dr. Maddox!"

Dr. Maddox and Dr. Bertrand turned around to see a balding, familiar man approaching them. Dr. Maddox replied, "Prime Minister Liverpool. An honor." He bowed. "I do not believe you've met my colleague, Dr. Bertrand."

"No, I've not. Dr. Bertrand."

"Sir," Bertrand said, a little overwhelmed.

"So you have a new member of your staff, eh?"

Dr. Maddox was taller than the Earl of Liverpool and current Prime Minister. He was taller than most men, and never seemed intimidated by them, especially not politicians. "Yes, Lord Liverpool."

"Very nice to meet you." The Prime Minister, one of the most powerful men in England, bowed again. "I hear the Prince of Wales will be appearing before Parliament in a few weeks."

"I do not know his schedule, Lord Liverpool."

"What about His Majesty?"

Dr. Maddox said, "I am not aware of His Majesty's schedule, but I would venture a guess that he has no plans to appear before Parliament." King George had not made a public appearance in almost a decade.

"You know what I mean. I am inquiring after his health."

"And you are very aware that I am not one of his many physicians. My concern is the Prince of Wales and no one else."

The Prime Minister nearly grabbed Dr. Maddox's arm as if to pull him aside, even though the three of them were relatively alone in the courtyard near Carlton. "I would ask your professional opinion."

"You may ask, but I may not give it, sir."

"Do you think the Prince will outlive his father?"

Dr. Bertrand turned his eyes to Dr. Maddox, who wore the same calm expression he always had while going about his profession. "I am a doctor, Lord Liverpool. Not a soothsayer."

"If you had to guess..."

"I do not care much for guessing. I try to avoid it whenever possible." He bowed. "Good day, sir."

"Good day," said the flustered Prime Minister, who quickly hurried away as they proceeded through the gates of Carlton, admitted without a second glance.

"I think you just snubbed the Prime Minister, Dr. Maddox."

He smiled. "I reprimand the Prince Regent on a regular basis, so I find him far less intimidating. Besides, he knows he has no business asking the royal physician about his patients. He's been doing it for years, and before him, Minister Perceval," he said. "If you want my job, you will have to become accustomed to such inconveniences."

"I'm not to suppose – "

Dr. Maddox stopped in the ornate hallway of Carlton House, a more serious look on his face. "Andrew, if you haven't realized that you'll have this position as soon as His Majesty dies or I lose my sight – whichever comes first – then you are not as clever as you make yourself out to be."

"I didn't want to say it outright."

"Then you're just polite. That's much better." He continued on. "Don't get involved in politics, Dr. Bertrand. It will ruin you and the already-spoiled good name of our profession."

"I've no intention of doing so."

"Good. Keep it that way."

They passed by the guards to enter the private chambers of the Prince of Wales, Regent to King George III and future king of England. That was, if he survived. At his current rate of bad habits towards his health and terrible mood swings since the death of his daughter, Charlotte, it was going to be close. He was not even out of bed yet and already drunk, moaning incoherently about his poor, gouty foot.

"Your Royal Highness," Dr. Maddox said.

"Oh thank G-d," the Prince said. "You must do something for this foot!"

"Unfortunately, that would require you to sit in a chair, Your Highness. You will have to choose between staying in bed for your foot or having it treated."

"You make everything hard for me! Why do I put up with you?"

"That decision is your prerogative, Your Highness," Dr. Maddox said unrelentingly. It did take the two doctors to get the ruler of Britain into a chair so that his foot could be placed in a tub to soak.

"My medicine! My medicine!"

"You are sitting in it, Your Highness."

"You know bloody well what I mean, Maddox! The tonic!"

He shook his head. "I told you it was just sugar water with a dye, sir. A dye which may actually be harmful. It will do nothing for your foot."

After some time and a lot of coffee, the Regent recovered more of his senses. "I need to lose weight before my appearance at Parliament," he announced. "Please don't bother me with the obvious methods. Here," he snapped his fingers and a servant brought forward a tray with a bottle on it. "From China."

Dr. Maddox smelled the tonic, which was fairly odorless, and inspected the label, showing it to Dr. Bertrand, who just shook his head in non-recognition. "It says it's bottled in Philadelphia, Your Highness. I doubt very much that it has Oriental origins. More to the point, I cannot condone it without knowing what's in it."

"It is supposed to bring about massive weight loss."

"If you don't mind, I would like to go on a little more than what is 'said.'" He held up the bottle. "There is an address for the distributor in Town. I will look him up and find out the actual ingredients, though I have little hope of it working as much as simply not consuming vast quantities of fatty foods - "

"Oh, not that again! This isn't fair – my father's a stick, you know."

"I have not seen him in years, but I will take your word for it."

The Regent paused. "You should see my father. Make ... an assessment."

"I will do anything you ask, but I remind you that I am not a psychical doctor, nor have I ever claimed to be."

"Still, you should go. To – make a sort of comparison. If I am to ascend the throne, I would like to know if I'm going to be mad while I do it." He added, "He loves children. Bring your son. That will break the ice."

Dr. Maddox momentarily lost his power of speech. Dr. Bertrand had never seen it before; it was a curious thing to watch. But he did recover, and bowed. "Yes, Your Highness."

The doctor uncharacteristically excused himself for the duration of the Regent's soak, and after that, there was a little more discussed (mainly about his diet) and they were excused.

"Doctor – "

"I'm fine," he said to Bertrand. "I am just not thrilled at the prospect of bringing my son to see a sick, blind madman." Dr. Bertrand decided to leave it at that. Or he had to, because Dr. Maddox almost immediately changed the subject as they left the house. "Are you inclined to continue coming to dinner while Miss Bennet is still in Town? Because I won't subject you to the obvious social maneuverings of my wife and cousin-in-law if you are not interested."

"Is this your way of asking me if I like her?"

"I suppose. I was always terrible at this. My courtship with Mrs. Maddox was such a disaster that I still wonder how it worked out in the end sometimes," he said, smiling again. "But that is a story for another time."

"I ... would be inclined, yes, if Miss Bennet is. I do not really know much about her."

"Young Mr. Bennet seems to like you. But that's more than the usual offering."

"He does seem an incredibly studious child."

"I wish either of my sons would study so hard. They'll take a ruler to Frederick when I send him to Eton, if I can even manage to get him there." He stepped down to where his coach was waiting. "Dinner tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow."

"Very good. Good day, Dr. Bertrand."

He tipped his hat. "Dr. Maddox." If he had other questions, he put them off. There was time yet.

* * *

When Dr. Maddox came home, he was first assaulted by his younger son, who raised his hands to be picked up. "Ride!" 

"Between you and I we'll be knocking your head on the ceiling soon, son. Enjoy it while you can." He picked up Danny Maddox and put him over his shoulders as Caroline found him.

"I see you've come to his rescue."

"Rescue? Is he in trouble?"

"And I see he was clever enough to give no indication," she said, folding her arms. "Daniel Maddox Junior, would you like to tell your father what you did?"

"It was Fred's idea!"

"He isn't even home, so don't try it. You know very well he's playing at your Uncle Bingley's house."

"Your punishment will be less if you do not go about assigning blame to others," Dr. Maddox said. "Now, what did you do?"

"I painted! Just like Uncle Maddox!"

"Yes," she said. "But _where_ did you paint?"

He mumbled, "...on the wall."

"And what did you use?"

"Ink."

Caroline looked at her husband, who was smiling. "Don't you dare laugh! It'll just make it worse."

"I want to be a samurai like Uncle Maddox and he says – "

" – that samurai paint for some reason. Yes, I know." The doctor pulled his son down and set him on the ground. "You shouldn't listen to everything your uncle says. As we've said many times, he is a crazy person. You also should not paint on things not meant to be painted on. Now go to Nurse, and let her decide your punishment!"

"Father – "

"_Now_, Daniel!" he said a bit more sternly, and his son, who was not used to that voice from his father, ran back up the stairs. "How bad was it?" he said to his wife.

"Why in the world he chose the hallway I'll never know, but at least it was the one upstairs, in case they cannot get the ink out of the wood," she said, and kissed him on the cheek. "The Kincaids are here."

"They're with Grégoire? How is he?"

"Sitting up for some time now."

He nodded. "I'd best check on him." He would bring up visiting the king later. Instead he headed into Grégoire's room, where he found Lord Kincaid sitting on the bed beside his wife while Grégoire sat in an armchair, holding Robert with the aid of a pillow to support his arms, so the infant was more just resting on his lap. "Hello. Lord Kincaid. Lady Kincaid. Grégoire." They still hadn't precisely decided on what to call him, or even asked him. "How are you feeling today?"

"Stronger," Grégoire said with a tired smile.

"And how is little Robert today?"

"Hey!" William Kincaid said. "He's not that little."

"He's an infant, dear," Georgiana said. "He is allowed to be small."

"Lord and Lady Kincaid," he said, "would you care to join us for luncheon?" He could already see Grégoire was tiring, but it would take more subtlety to get that infant out of his arms and let him sleep.

They agreed, and Georgiana left first to set Robert down for a nap, William following in her stead.

"Such a wonderful child," Grégoire said, as Dr. Maddox helped him stand and make it back to his bed. He still could not stand on his own, his body still recovering from a long illness. "So much life in him."

"Indeed."

Grégoire was settled more comfortably on his bed. "You've done so much for me – and I know of no way to repay it. Aside from the obvious way, I suppose."

He waved it off. "Money is as meaningless to me as it is to you in matters of family. I am satisfied enough that we could save you."

"I heard it was very close."

"Yes," he said. "But you will be well. It is only a matter of time, now that the stitches are out."

"Who would want me now, so scarred?"

Dr. Maddox merely replied, "Are you implying that you are wishing for companionship of the less familial kind, Mr. Grégoire?" Grégoire went red, but it was a good feeling for both of them. "No one has really wanted to ask you if you've had thoughts about your future. When you arrived, you were quite in despair about it."

Almost two weeks had now passed, and Grégoire answered, "My memories are poor of that period, but I do remember it in part; the passage from Spain to England, not at all. Thank goodness, too, for I am always ill at sea if I notice I am. I only remember the abbot's voice and then talking to Father Leblanc. There is little between that."

"You have not answered my question."

"No," Grégoire said, clutching the cross on his rosary. "I do wish to return to Pemberley, but beyond that – I have much thinking to do. Or perhaps I will travel, in the spring. Not very far, or brother will follow me with an armed guard."

Dr. Maddox chuckled. "He would. But you realize there are questions to which there are no answers. I don't suppose I am the first one to tell you that."

"No, but there are ideas I have never heard before. Have you ever read the Confession of Saint Patrick?"

"I confess, I have not."

"Darcy purchased a copy for me when I asked for anything in Latin. I doubt he knew exactly what he was purchasing or cared. It is here." He pointed, but not did reach, for the pile of books stacked up on the table beside the bed. "He used to pray spontaneously, as often as he felt the grace of G-d, while he was herding sheep in captivity. He says it was sometimes as often as a hundred times a day."

"They could not have been very long prayers, or the sheep would have all gotten away."

Grégoire laughed. "I do not know much about sheep. I was always more of a gardener. More the planter of men than the shepherd of men, which I realize after having said it aloud, makes little sense."

They shared another laugh. "You have the world before you, if reading is to be your occupation for a time," Dr. Maddox said. "You have that to look forward to."

"This is true. Now if I may have some privacy, it is time for Sexts."

"Would you like a watch to keep track of these things?" Dr. Maddox said, looking at his pocket watch. It was indeed 12:15, almost exactly.

"No," Grégoire said. "I always know anyway."

Dr. Maddox nodded. "After that – get some rest. Doctor's orders." He gave him a pat on the arm and left to ponder that mystery.

* * *

Daniel Maddox did thoroughly enjoy his partial retirement, which allowed him to retire with his wife at a normal time. It was only when they were comfortably in bed that he said, "The Regent asked me to visit the king." 

"For an assessment?"

"He wants me to see him. The Prince worries about his own mental health, after all." He added, "He asked me to bring Frederick with me to Windsor."

Even in the partial darkness, where he was basically blind, he could see her alarm. It was more that he could sense it, without even touching her, as she said, "_He said that?"_

"His exact words were, 'He loves children. Bring your son. That will break the ice.' He did not bother to clarify which son, though he very well knows I have two." He reached out, and she found his hand. "I've spoken to His Majesty's staff several times. He is completely out of his mind and does not look well. He has almost no visitors as a result." He added, "I don't want Frederick to see that, even if it is his grandfather."

"Why not? You bring all kinds of gruesomeness into this house. And besides, he doesn't know the connection."

"You think the Prince is right, then? That he should see him before he dies?"

"You believe that is the Prince's intention?"

"Maybe. I don't know." He tightened his hold on her hand. His were so calloused, he sometimes felt almost bad touching her soft skin, as if he would mar it. "I just get nervous when he mentions Frederick, however subtly he does so."

She leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder. "I know. I do, too. But it seems to happen anyway." She said, "The Prince may be feeling sentimental." She paused, and then added, "Is he mad?"

"The Prince?"

"Yes. Like his father."

"No. I've seen no signs of it. He is just a glutton, a drunk, an addict, and a pervert. He is, however, not mad, if that is some consolation."

She responded, "That is a great consolation."

He could not disagree.

...Next chapter - The Non-Courtship


	20. The NonCourtship

Manner of Devotion

by DJ Clawson

"_Everybody likes to go their own way--to choose their own time and manner of devotion."_

_Jane Austen, Mansfield Park_

Author's Note: My policy: Update twice a week or when a chapter reaches 5-10 comments, whichever comes first.

* * *

Chapter 20 – The Non-Courtship 

With great relief, Grégoire was released from Dr. Maddox's care to the Darcys, at least in their townhouse in London. He was greeted by the staff with more enthusiasm than anyone expected and seemed overwhelmed by the experience. Despite the circumstances, Darcy and Elizabeth delighted in having all of the Darcys under one roof, the first time since Georgiana's marriage. Mary Bennet continued her stay, as Joseph was often lonely at Longbourn and enjoyed the time with his cousins, even if the ones closer to his age were girls. Mr. and Mrs. Bradley finally paid a visit to Grégoire along with George and Isabella, which was mercifully short enough to keep Mary and Lydia from getting into too heated a conversation in the sitting room.

On the third day, Grégoire was well enough to join them at dinner, if only briefly. On the forth, it was not Dr. Maddox who called, but Dr. Bertrand. His attention was to his patient, and he did not seem to mind when Darcy explained that the ladies were out with Mrs. Bingley.

Dr. Bertrand sighed at the extensive scarring on Grégoire's back and the ones he had created on his forearms to save his back, but Grégoire heard it and just shook his head. "I know people with fewer scars and yet they are unable to do things like walk normally. I am quite blessed."

While Dr. Bertrand did not know how this man could bring himself to say such a thing and mean it, he brokered no opposition. "As soon as you are strong enough, you can return to Pemberley, if that is your desire."

"I admit I am eager to go home," he said. "Look who it is."

Joseph Bennet stood in the doorframe, half-hiding behind it as Dr. Bertrand helped Grégoire roll his tunic back down. "Uncle Grégoire, you said you would do my Latin homework."

"I said I would _help_ you. But it is time for the office of _None_. You will have to wait a bit, Joseph."

"What is it?" Bertrand said. "What is the text, I mean?"

"He is supposed to translate some of Virgil's poetry, I believe."

"Very challenging. Is that true, Mr. Bennet?"

Joseph nodded.

"I can help him. Or try, at least," Bertrand said. "And you should rest, Mr. Grégoire."

"I know, I know. After prayer, I will rest, if you will lift this particular burden off my shoulders, though it is not normally a burden."

"I understand." Bertrand turned to Joseph. "Why don't we see if I remember anything from my exams?"

It turned out he did, and he sat on the sofa in the sitting room, helping Joseph translate a particularly difficult set of poems. He was impressed not only with the boy's comprehension, but his penmanship. "Who is your tutor, Mr. Bennet?"

"Mother and Grandfather. Grandmother didn't know Latin anyway and then she had a stroke."

"I am sorry to hear that."

"Grandfather likes it. He says she's nicer now. She kisses him a lot."

He blushed a little. "Mr. Bennet, I'm quite sure you shouldn't tell people your grandmother had a stroke. Or the other bit."

"Well, it's really _obvious_."

"That does not mean you should say it. But, that is for your mother to decide." He looked up. "Speaking of ..."

"Mummy!" Joseph jumped up and hugged his mother, who was still removing her bonnet as she entered with Mrs. Darcy and Mrs. Bingley. "Dr. Bertrand was helping me with my schoolwork!"

"Was he?" Mrs. Darcy said before Mary could respond. "Dr. Bertrand. I trust your patient is doing well?"

"He is."

"Mr. Darcy is very eager to return to Pemberley."

"I think it will be possible in the next week or two," he said. "Excuse Dr. Maddox's absence, he was on an errand –,"

"That's quite all right," Mrs. Bingley said.

"Will you join us for luncheon? It seems no one else will be home in time," Mrs. Darcy offered. Mary shot her a look. It wasn't cold, but did she really not want to be in his presence? Or was she afraid? He could diagnose patients better than people.

He decided to chance it. "I'd love to."

* * *

"Really, Mary. I've never seen someone so intent on chasing off a perfectly amiable gentleman," Elizabeth said when they returned to her sitting room. 

Truly, Mary had done nothing to chase him off. She had not been rude over the meal, or ignored him, or not contributed. She had not, however, rushed to return his affections, which were not gushing themselves, but were enough to indicate a preference. In fact, she had announced she was leaving for Longbourn as soon as the Darcys returned to Pemberley and the Bingleys to Kirkland.

"I am not a romantic, Lizzy."

"I do not believe this is a situation that calls for a romantic gesture."

Mary looked down at her knitting. "It is all ridiculous. I will return to Longbourn, where I shall remain while Papa still lives, and he is tied to Town. Am I supposed to indicate that I am to remain here indefinitely when it is not true?"

"Hertfordshire is not so terribly far from Town if one is a good rider," Jane said. "Especially since they have redone the roads. There is no reason to call off a courtship because of thirty miles."

"It is not a courtship!"

"Very well," Elizabeth said. "Tell us what you find so displeasing about him and that shall be the end of the matter."

"He has no reason to court me."

"That is not exactly a stunning character fault. Nor is it logical."

Mary stared at her sister. "Must I state the obvious?"

"Mary," Jane said kindly, "he seems to like Joseph very much. Mr. Bradley was certainly not discouraged by the presence of not one but two children. And he does not have to provide for Joseph, with the trust. If he saw any reason to hesitate, he would have done so."

"He could be a fortune hunter."

"Then he is a poor one," Elizabeth said, "for no one has said a thing about money, and even if they had, Papa controls your inheritance and will refuse it to a rake."

Their younger sister looked down; apparently she could think of no more to say.

"Did you speak to Joseph?"

"I will if I need to, but not before. Speaking of, I must make sure he is not bothering Mr. Grégoire. Excuse me." And she abruptly left her sisters, taking her needles with her.

Elizabeth and Jane exchanged glances. "Why is she so cold to the idea?" Jane asked. "Perhaps she does not wish to be married at all. Some women don't."

"I am not convinced. She would have had no reason to continue a charade of pleasantry with a man she did not like." She sighed. "Perhaps her heart still belongs to someone else."

"Can one be meant for two people?"

"When one of those persons is gone and never to return, I would certainly hope so," Elizabeth said.

* * *

Grégoire's health improved steadily, even more so as he was able to eat more and more. He could walk on his own, and for the first time ventured outside the townhouse. The next day, Darcy took him to a bookshop, where with his own money, Grégoire purchased a number of books in Latin, Greek, English, French – whatever suited him that they were sure Pemberley did not have. He went to confession, but did not attend Anglican services. 

As soon as they were given leave to return to Pemberley, they made ready to depart. Dr. Bertrand called a final time to advise them to go slowly. It happened that Mary was set to depart later that afternoon, and somehow, with all of the servants and children running about, she encountered him alone in the library. Or, it was carefully arranged behind both of their backs.

"May I call on you in Hertfordshire?" he said, not mincing words.

"Why?"

He blushed. "For all of the reasons a man normally calls on a woman, Miss Bennet. And I would like to see Master Joseph." When she did not answer, he lowered his voice. "Are you really so adverse to me?"

She clutched her locket. "No."

"Then may I ask you a question?"

She looked up at him nervously. "You may, Dr. Bertrand."

"Did Joseph's father give you that locket?"

Her response was a look of horror, but she did relinquish her tight clutch on the locket. "Yes."

"Are you still in love with him?"

"I don't know – I knew him only briefly." She added, "But he _is_ Joseph's father."

"So he is alive, then, with no intentions to return to you."

She was caught in her own lie. She hadn't actually said Joseph's father was dead, but it was the official story. "No, he is not coming back." She continued, "His family meant him for the Church. He may well be a bishop by now for all I know." She looked up to find no horror or disgust on his face.

"You are not the only one to have done something that has tormented you with mixed feelings, you know," he said. "I was a surgeon at Waterloo."

"That is a very noble task."

"– for the French."

There was a silence.

"My parents were nobility. They came here to hide during the Revolution. My relatives stayed and were slaughtered. I was born and raised here, but in the final years of Napoleon's reign, they repatriated, and so did I, to finish my education. I served in the army because I needed the clinical experience."

"Does Dr. Maddox know?"

"He is the only one who does."

There was another silence.

"My parents will be somewhat disappointed if I tell them I am courting an English girl from the country," he said, "but as we _are_ in England, they cannot be all that surprised."

She mumbled, "I have some money. Giov – Joseph's father provided him with a trust and me with living expenses. My father keeps hold of it to be my inheritance. If you want it, you will have to impress him."

"I do not want it," he said, "but I will try to impress him anyway."

* * *

Dr. Bertrand left and was not there to see Mary off, but judging from her expression, no great rift had occurred between them. She even admitted, after much inquisition by her sisters, that he had asked to call on her, but made them swear not to say a word. And with that, and all the good-byes, Mary and Joseph were gone. 

The next day began early; the Maddoxes called – all of them, actually – as the doctor gave Darcy various powders to be mixed with water if Grégoire lost his health on the road.

The Kincaids would return with the Darcys to Pemberley. It was on the way and Georgiana was eager to spend more time with both her brothers, and William was eager to please. It took three full coaches to fit everyone and then other vehicles for the servants and nurses, but they were off. The passage took four days instead of three (it could be done in two, with luck and speed). Dr. Maddox's instincts were right, and the bumping of the carriage tired Grégoire easily, and made him ill by the side of the road, for which he was very embarrassed. Darcy shooed away the coachman and attended his brother personally. They spent three nights at the inns along the way, encountering one innkeeper's wife who knew Grégoire from his previous wanderings but did not recognize him; he had to be reintroduced.

Darcy sent a rider ahead to inform Mrs. Reynolds to make sure no one would make a big deal of Grégoire's return, even though they had all heard something of his poor health and return to England, and instead focus on the former mistress of Pemberley and her husband. He was also just Mr. Grégoire now or Mr. Bellamont if they were truly uncomfortable (he could not truly claim the Darcy name, with his mixed parentage). His old servant, Thomas, was there to greet him and help him out of the carriage. Even without his monastic appearance Grégoire was still recognizable. They got him inside without a fuss, and he rested until dinner while Viscount Robert Kincaid was admired by the maids who had once attended Georgiana, The rest of the servants welcomed their master and mistress, and the heirs to Pemberley that followed them, eager to be home and not uneager to show it.

The Darcys always found a wonderful solace in returning to their own apartments, bathing in their own tubs, and having the luxury and privacy that Pemberley afforded them. It was only then that the two of them could fully acknowledge (without words, which were unnecessary) that London had been an ordeal. They retreated in peace until Thomas came knocking at their door to tell them his charge had gone to the chapel and perhaps could use a visit. His subtlety was impressive.

Darcy took it upon himself, of course, to find Grégoire weeping on the stone before the altar that he had restored himself a decade ago, when he had first come to Pemberley. Why Grégoire would so readily subject himself to so many memories, Darcy had no idea, but thinking on it clearly, he imagined he would do the same. He knelt beside his brother, letting him lean on him as he sobbed into Darcy's waistcoat.

"I have been abandoned."

"You were turned from the Church, Grégoire. Not G-d. I believe the abbot made specific mention of that."

"Where is the L-rd to be found outside of the Church?"

Darcy paused, and said, "I do not believe Our L-rd and Savior had one. I do not think they had even _had_ a Church." His history was not the best, as his Rector focused mainly on the sermons and not the events of the Good Book. "I believe he just wandered around and spoke to the people."

"Like Saint Patrick."

Darcy had no idea but he said, "Yes."

"I want to visit our family – and the saint, if I can bear to show my face to him."

Darcy just nodded, and escorted him to the graveyard. He had not been there himself in quite a while. Though he did love his parents and did his best to honor their memory, it was not one of his regular stops when traversing the grounds. They had gone long ago and he had made his peace with that. Grégoire had known his father only in the barest terms, and his mother was buried at Mon-Claire. The only graves of people he knew were ones he dug himself or oversaw the completion of. They passed by Wickham and nodded their heads.

"You would be proud of your children," Grégoire said to the headstone.

"Believe it or not, I actually agree," Darcy said, which served to lighten the mood. And it was true.

They came to Sebald's grave, relatively unadorned compared to some of the others and hidden away in a corner. Grégoire said something in Latin, and when Darcy requested a translation, he replied, "'Forgive this poor sinner.'"

Darcy made the cross of blessing over Grégoire, saying in a deeper voice, "I forgive you, my son."

"Darcy!"

"What? Who says saints are forbidden to have a sense of humor?" he said, not quite sure he wasn't doing something sacrilegious. Even if he was, it was worth it to see Grégoire smile. "Come. Dinner must almost be ready and there is a wonderful selection of French wines this year, and you may drink all that you like while your poor brother can have none."

"I forget – is Geoffrey old enough to join us?"

"Not yet, thank goodness, or we would have to temper our speech." He sighed. "That day will come soon enough."

"Temper what speech? You never say anything in company."

"I wouldn't say _anything_ – "

"Almost nothing. Monosyllables."

They slowly walked back to Pemberley proper. "If my doctor permitted me to drink – I tell you, it would be a different story. I am quite a lush."

"So I have heard, from Mr. Bingley."

"Bingley! We should give him a strong drink and find out what he _really_ did in India. I keep hearing a tiger mentioned and still know nothing about it."

"Why would Mr. Bingley have a story about a tiger?"

"Precisely."

They laughed their way back to the house.

...Next Chapter - The Letter from the Island


	21. The Letter from the Island

Manner of Devotion

by DJ Clawson

"_Everybody likes to go their own way--to choose their own time and manner of devotion."_

_Jane Austen, Mansfield Park_

Author's Note: My policy: Update twice a week or when a chapter reaches 5-10 comments, whichever comes first.

* * *

Chapter 21 – The Letter from the Island 

Darcy was not returned to Pemberley for three weeks before he called Elizabeth into his study, where the day's mail was piled up. He had been perusing a note about an offer on an estate holding when he noticed the letter from Longbourn, sorted accidentally into his pile. "From your father," he said to her, doubting it was something serious, or it would have surely been an express.

Mr. Bennet rarely wrote; he had more of a passion for words in a book than putting them on a page himself, and often lamented that there was little to say about life in Longbourn that mattered enough for the cost of the letter. Elizabeth immediately opened it and sat down to read it. Darcy looked up from his own concerns to watch her expressions, which were not alarmed at any point, in fact, at one point, she giggled. "It seems Mary has had a certain caller."

"Ah, yes. The protégé," Darcy said, relieved that at least one Bennet romance was going as intended without his aid and was eager to leave it that way if at all possible. "May I ask what your father makes of all this?" he said, as she was sure to tell him anyway.

She happily read him the letter, likely omitting some words, but the letter was not long to begin with.

_Dearest Lizzy, _

You will perhaps find some consolation in the fact that your maneuverings in London were not without results. Mary was here not two days before Dr. Bertrand rode to Hertfordshire to make my acquaintance and formally ask for my permission to court Mary, though he hardly required it. You can imagine who is fleeing and who is pursuing, but the way to a woman's heart is through her child, and apparently the doctor has discovered this. Joseph has a great fondness for him, and would not stop blabbering about him as soon as he returned, which is how I came to hear the name in the first place.

_I do not know much of the particulars in terms of Dr. Bertrand's service to the Crown and if he intends to sever that, for Mary has declared rather soundly (and in front of him) that she has no desire to leave Longbourn. Nonetheless he is a persistent fellow, and she has done nothing to more soundly discourage him, so I imagine that should things continue as they are moving, I will go to my grave having safely married all five of my daughters; no small accomplishment considering I hardly left this study while doing so. _

_Mrs. Bennet wishes you well of course, but her penmanship is not what it was, and she is forever on my back to write notes for her to her sister and brother. At her insistence I will keep you updated about the events as of late. _

_My love to all of my grandchildren, and my sons, when they behave themselves. The sons, not the grandchildren. _

_Mr. Edmund Bennet _

They decided it was good news (they could hardly decide otherwise). "He is a sensible young man," Darcy said, "and they are always in short supply." He rose, and kissed his wife on her cheek. "I must find my brother. Do excuse me."

"You are excused," she said with a smile. She rose to leave only moments after he disappeared, and paused only to glance at the torn envelope from the documents that her husband had been reading when she entered; it had not escaped her notice that he was bothered by them. The name on the return brought no recognition, and the address was the Isle of Man central post office. _How odd_, she thought to herself. But then again he had many holdings inherited from both sides of the family (including Rosings and portions of Kent), so she put the thought aside to seek out her sister, who was over for lunch, to share the more interesting news.

* * *

The gun fired but missed its target, a passing bird that escaped injury. The shot was so wild that the fowl was in no danger of it. 

"Maybe you should try stationary targets," Georgiana Bingley said.

Geoffrey Darcy put the gun down to reload it. "All you _do_ is hit stationary targets."

"When they make an archery target that moves, I will be happy to shoot it," she said, and loaded and fired her bow in less time than it took him to even push down the canister for the next shot. It hit the red circle in the middle. Only three shots out of ten had failed to do so. "This is so boring."

"You could hunt."

"You know Mama would never let me do such a thing. Do you imagine me tramping through the woods with a bow and arrow after a deer? I would ruin my dress and never hear the end of it?"

"I can imagine that, actually."

She frowned in annoyance. "I mean, me tramping through the woods with _permission_ to do so. Quite a different thing. Plus I think my father would be suspicious if I returned with a fawn slung over my shoulders."

"Not very ladylike."

"No."

Geoffrey's dog returned, having nothing to retrieve. "Sorry, Gawain," Geoffrey said, petting him on the head. He put his rifle down and picked up one of Georgiana's arrows and tossed it. "Fetch."

"Hey!"

"For all of the arrows you've lost over the years, you can afford one to poor Gawain."

"He's only poor because he never has anything to bring back but things you toss him."

Geoffrey did not respond to her jibe, so accustomed to it as he was. Instead he just let his errant dog return and tossed it again. Sir Gawain was four, and most energetic, which Geoffrey's father liked. He did not much care for the name, but he was overruled by Geoffrey's mother, who thought it was more amusing than a traditional name for a pup.

"Do you have anything else to do but insult my marksmanship?"

"Oh, yes," Georgie said. "I must learn to dance, sew, draw, paint, sing, and if I have time before supper, play the pianoforte; all casually, of course. It would be indecorous for me to attempt to become a professional at anything."

He said, "You know how to do some of those things."

"But they must be perfected."

"And after that?"

"That's the part I haven't figured out. Everyone I know who is unattached seems so terribly bored."

"I like your drawings," he said. "It's a shame your governess burned them. They were ... imaginative."

"There are only so many flowers in this world to be drawn," she said. "Should we wake your uncle?"

"I don't know how he succeeds in sleeping through the racket this rifle makes," he said. "Probably because he wakes at half past three every morning; terrifies the servants every time."

"Still? Did anyone tell him he doesn't have to keep monastic hours anymore?"

He glanced at her. "Do you want to be the one to tell him that?"

To this she had no response. They gathered their materials and headed down the hill, where Grégoire was asleep against a tree, his head rolling to one side. Fortunately they were able to rouse him before Geoffrey's father showed up, because he was supposed to be watching _them_, not them watching _him_.

"There you are," Darcy said. He nodded to his niece. "Miss Bingley."

"Uncle Darcy," she said with a curtsey.

"Father."

Grégoire wiped his eyes. "I am sorry. Am I late for something?"

"No, not at all. There was something I wanted to discuss with you. Geoffrey, you're late for French – "

"_Aww _– "

"And Miss Bingley, I am quite sure you are late for _something_."

She did not reply, but merely curtseyed and ran off, back towards Kirkland.

"Catch anything?" Darcy said.

"...No."

"Did you at least fire in the general direction?"

Geoffrey colored. Grégoire tried to hide his amusement. But Darcy patted his son on the shoulder. "When I was your age, I couldn't hit the broad side of a building. Most of what I know, I learned from your Uncle Bingley – and to this day, he can still best me. But that will be our secret. Mention it in front of your uncle – whichever one you like – and you will regret it."

"Of course, Father." That was his cue to exit, and he bowed briefly to them and ran back up the hill towards Pemberley, Sir Gawain running up ahead of him. "I will not be outrun by my cousin and a dog on the same day!"

Unfortunately, he had not yet learned the value of promising himself things that would not come to be true.

* * *

Darcy sat down on the stump beside his brother. He did not ask how he was feeling – Grégoire had tired of it, even though he did not express his agitation in words. He was bordering on actually being well; it was only a matter of energy. "I trust that they behaved themselves for the time that you weren't asleep?" 

"They are wonderful children," his brother replied. "What brings you away from your ledgers?"

"I will endure this from my wife, but not from you," Darcy said with a laugh. "It is a proposal."

"A proposal?"

"I have a holding on the Isle of Man that I inherited with the estate – a house on a small island in the south. It has been sitting idle since father died, and now someone has made an offer on it. Before I sell it, I want to see it again. He may have left some personal effects there, as he did in Valgones. And I must decide on a price," he said. "I would like very much for you to accompany me, if you feel up to it."

"It is a short journey by sea, is it not?"

"If we leave from Liverpool, it would not be more than a few hours at most. Plenty of time to hold your stomach."

Grégoire smiled. "Then I would be happy to accompany you."

* * *

Their journey was set for only a few weeks hence. The weather was growing colder, but Grégoire wanted to spend as much time with Georgiana as he could before she departed to winter at home in Scotland. He spent most of his time reading, but when he was well enough, he would accompany Elizabeth on her trips to visit the poor of Derbyshire, never without a man capable of carrying him back if he collapsed (which he did not). It was something he had loved to do in past years in Derbyshire and he was eager to return to charitable work, even if it was just to deliver coal and cured meats. Some people recognized him and some did not, but both forced him to endure a line of questioning as to his change in appearance and occupation. He eventually found a response that he seemed most comfortable with, probably because it was suitable confounding to end that line of questioning. "Transience and impermanence are a necessary part of life." When Elizabeth asked him where he learned this saying, he replied, "One of Mr. Bingley's Indian books." 

The Kincaids were sent off with much fanfare, and a promise to return sometime in the spring or summer. "You will find your way; I'm sure of it. You are too good for this world," his sister said with teary eyes.

Darcy and Grégoire left the very next day for their business excursion. Elizabeth, quite accustomed to Darcy's occasional absences for estate business, did not question it except to say, "You know, he will never be an English gentleman."

"That is not why I'm bringing him," he assured her.

The servants packed a whole case of powders, tinctures, tonics, and salves for Grégoire even at his insistence that he did not need them. He did not mind the hard back of the carriage seat. "I hardly have any flesh left there that is not scarred, so I feel nothing but the rocking," he admitted.

Grégoire read for a time, and Darcy was lost in looking out the window, watching Pemberley disappear behind him. It was not until they left Derbyshire proper that Grégoire closed his book and said, "So what is the real reason for our journey?"

Darcy sighed. "It is not easy for me to say this, but I think, it is time. I am not a superstitious man, but the offer arriving at the same time you returned to Pemberley was an interesting coincidence."

Grégoire nodded him on.

"What I'm about to say is not so commonly known. In fact, the only person who knows it for sure is Dr. Maddox, and only because, in a moment where I lost my wits in Austria, I told him to pass the time." He turned away from the window, looking at Grégoire across from him. "Your namesake is our Uncle Gregory Darcy, father's elder brother."

"He died young?"

"No. He died when I was already ten and five."

Grégoire paused, mulling over the implications. "Why have I never heard of him?"

"Because there are no records of him at Pemberley, at least that I have found. He was disinherited at ten and eight, and then immediately died in a tragic riding accident. His portraits were removed, and over the next few years, the entire Pemberley staff was changed over one by one, so that by the time our father married my mother, no one knew of him, or heard rumors of a son that had died so tragically that no one spoke of it. I did not know of him until I was five, and did not fully understand the situation until it was explained to me when I was five and ten, before I saw him for the last time. Our father was reluctant to speak of him on English soil – he would just say 'we are going to the Isle of Man' and then wait until we were on the boat to say why."

"What did he do?"

"He was mad," Darcy answered, and let that set in for a moment. "He knew he was. His illness was not so extensive that he was fully aware of his shortcomings. According to father's story, which Uncle Gregory then supported when I asked him myself, he asked to be disinherited. He did not want to manage Pemberley; he did not want the burden and doubted he could manage it. But if the reasons were discovered, it would mar our father's chances for a good match, despite his wealth. So instead they faked his death and destroyed his existence, our father and grandfather. I never had a mad uncle; there is no illness in the family. You understand?"

"Perfectly," Grégoire said, though he said it with the appropriate gravity of someone who was hearing something that would take time to fully sink in. "How was he ill?"

"Monomania; which has no meaning, as I have come to understand. He did care for society; he did not trust people he did not know." He swallowed, "to a much farther extent than myself, obviously."

Grégoire just nodded.

Darcy played with his ring, the special signet ring that had only been saved from being stolen during his captivity by him having given it on a whim to his son to hold on to while he was gone. "I know very little about whatever treatment he received, but he eventually refused it and father, who became his legal guardian after our grandfather's death, consented. He lived in solitude for the rest of his life on that little island, attended only by nurses he didn't trust and said were trying to poison him. And yet, when I spoke to him, he could have a completely normal conversation. He understood who I was and he told me he was content with his life, and could not think of another way to have lived it. The fact that he ... hung himself ... a week after saying so is something I have never understood, and will never understand." He looked away nervously. "I have never told Elizabeth, or even Georgiana. Did father mention to you that you had an uncle?"

"No," he said. "Not to my knowledge, but I was young. I do not remember everything."

"He was good at keeping secrets," Darcy said. "It never bothered me to carry this one around. Uncle Gregory said himself that he wanted to be buried in obscurity, to not taint the family tree. He was very noble in that sense, in his loyalty to the Darcy line. This was until Austria, when it came out, and I realized – maybe I should have told someone there was sickness in my family." He was not speaking so easily now. Only Grégoire's reassuring nods kept him going. "It seems to have missed Geoffrey and Anne – the others are too young yet. But it is obvious to me that George is affected. I have tried to counsel him – without counseling him. You understand."

"I understand."

"All of Gregory Darcy's personal effects should still be there, or so I have been informed by the solicitor, who only knows him as 'previous resident.' He is also buried there, I am quite sure. I do not know where else he would be, and he is not at Pemberley. I let the land sit because there was nothing better to do with it and because it would mean – going back."

Again, Grégoire nodded. "I am honored to go with you."

Darcy smiled. It was exactly what he needed to hear.

* * *

When he could put it off no longer, Dr. Maddox told his son they were to go to Windsor, to see the king. There was no way to begin to explain why – he barely understood himself, and Frederick did not even know he was adopted. He was eight – too young for all that. Dr. Maddox withstood the barrage of questions admirably, ducking as many as he could with 'His Highness requested it' and 'It may not be fun, but it will be short.' 

Caroline hugged her son, dressed up in clothes purchased special for this visit, with extra vigor before they entered the carriage. "Be good. And whatever you think, for goodness' sake, do not say it."

"Then what am I to say?"

"To our sovereign? 'Yes, Your Majesty' and "No, Your Majesty,' will suffice," the doctor said, kissing his wife. "He will be fine."

"He is not the only person I am concerned with."

Dr. Maddox smiled to hide his anxiety.

The trip to Windsor was brief. He had never been there – no one went there unless they had to, despite the massive grounds and impressive architecture. The sovereign was mad and his many children did not call, often because they were not recognized when they did. He was seen mainly by his doctors. Dr. Maddox knew a few of them, and respected even less. They were of an older school, and he had always had radical ideas about certain aspects of medicine that they would have hardly agreed on anything if they sat down to talk about the most basic forms of treatment. Dr. Maddox was against bleeding the sick, almost entirely because he had been almost bled to death as a young man when he had an infection from his second cataract surgery. He had a foot in the grave when his brother, mad with worry, finally shooed the doctors away when they came with their spikes for the daily bloodletting, and only then did he begin to recover (or so Brian said. Dr. Maddox had little memory of the experience). Dr. Maddox was too skeptical to leave the incident to chance. He was an observational doctor, believing only what he saw, and he only saw patients get weaker after bleeding, with no positive effects that seemed to be connected to the bleeding itself. They had already debunked Aristotle's treatise on the humors of the body – why not do away with the entire idea of an excess of blood?

But of course the established doctors who had been schooled in the previous century and had treated the king for years had other ideas and Dr. Maddox knew his place was not to contradict them. Maybe someday, when they were long gone, he would publish a paper or something, but he was not willing to be labeled an outlaw now, at the height of his career, when his family depended on him.

Without much ceremony Dr. Maddox and son passed the guards and greeted one of the doctors he was acquainted with. They made minor conversation as Frederick impatiently pulled on his arm. Maddox pitied his son; he had no idea why he was here and would not know for years, if he ever did. And by then, the king would most likely be long dead.

"His Majesty is in good spirits today," said the physician. "You know he is completely blind, correct?"

"I have been informed, yes."

"Not helping his stability, I'm afraid. Of course, everything he says will likely be complete nonsense. It would be best to just play along or risk upsetting him. Not that he can do much when he's upset, it just might be upsetting for your son to see." He paused. "Why is he here?"

"His Highness the Prince Regent thought it would be a good idea to bring a child."

"Yes, His Majesty loves children. He loved them when they were children, and was quite disappointed with how they turned out."

Dr. Maddox just nodded and looked down at his son, who was frowning at being dragged along on this mysterious errand. "Best behavior, Frederick. This is your king."

Frederick did not seem impressed, but at least he didn't vocalize it in words.

The servant opened the door to the king's chambers. "Do not turn your back on His Majesty."

Not that it mattered when the old man was blind and mad, but Dr. Maddox just nodded. "Of course."

Without ceremony, the two of them were allowed entrance to a sitting room. It had the splendor of a royal palace but without all the little touches of a man who cared for his surroundings as the Prince Regent did. In that way, it was almost as bare as the man sitting in the armchair before them. Wrapped in blankets, even though it was not cold, he shook his head, his remaining locks of white hair waving as he said, "Who is it? Who is there?"

Dr. Maddox bowed, and his son did the same. "Your Majesty, I am Dr. Daniel Maddox, and this is my son, Frederick Maddox. We are here at your son's behest."

"My son? Frederick has come?"

"No, Your Majesty. _My_ son is named Frederick as well."

"Nonsense. Let me see him, and we shall tell the truth of the matter."

Dr. Maddox wasn't sure he had to do it, but he still helped lift Frederick into the lap of King George III. "I'm Frederick Maddox, sir."

"You're very small to fight the French. Why did I ever send you to Flanders? Utter nonsense. A foolish misjudgment on my part; a man must always take the greatest care with his children." He did not bother to turn his sightless, milky eyes in the direction of Dr. Maddox, who took the seat beside him. "He is not my son, is he?"

"No," Dr. Maddox said honestly.

"A shame that I made him Duke of Cumberland, then. Wait! I know who you are!" He pointed not at Frederick but in Maddox's general direction. "You're Lord Brute! Why didn't you tell me you were coming to visit?"

"I am not, sir."

"How dare you imply otherwise! You were a witness to my wedding! I remember it perfectly. John, I am most insulted."

Dr. Maddox could not help but smile. "I did not mean to insult you, Your Majesty."

"What do you have to say, George?" the king said to Frederick.

"I'm not George; I'm Frederick. I _told you_ that." Frederick Maddox was not known for his patience, especially not in the lap of a mad person, even if he was king. "Don't you remember?"

"Frederick –" Dr. Maddox said to curb his son, but the king interrupted.

"Nonsense. I remember everything perfectly, except for the times that I do not. Fortunately, I do not remember them! So it is most convenient. They say I am mad, but you shan't listen to that, young George. And stop lusting after your tutors; 'tis most improper for a royal issue."

Frederick, legitimately confused, turned to his father, who just shrugged and tried to hold back his laughter.

They chatted for some time, as Dr. Maddox was unsure where to end the conversation without making up some humongous lie that he was needed to invade Prussia or something, until Frederick became too fidgety and was escorted out the room and told to wait for a moment outside with a servant.

"I am a doctor, Your Majesty," Dr. Maddox said. "I am here because your son, George, asked me to come and see you."

"And what is your medical treatment?"

"Sadly, I have none."

"Then you are more intelligent than most doctors, to admit it. It is a shame you are a colonel instead of a doctor; I imagine you would have made a good one," the king said. "That was George, wasn't it? It felt like him. I know my own son, you know."

"It was not George," Maddox said. "It was his son; your grandson."

"Really? No one told me he was born. I am subscribed to the wrong papers. Well, I create him Lord of the Colonies in America. Tell him that, won't you?"

Maddox, despite his fear, could not help but smile. "I will, Your Majesty."

...Next Chapter ... A Matter of Propriety


	22. A Matter of Propriety

Manner of Devotion

by DJ Clawson

"_Everybody likes to go their own way--to choose their own time and manner of devotion."_

_Jane Austen, Mansfield Park_

Author's Note: Sorry for the delay, guys. I was away. My policy: Update twice a week or when a chapter reaches 5-10 comments, whichever comes first.

* * *

Chapter 22 – A Matter of Propriety 

It happened that two very respectable ladies were riding to Town, one an earl's wife and the other her cousin, when they spotted two people walking down the road with bowls on their heads. They were almost tempted to tell the curricle driver to slow down so that they might get a better look, but seeing the couple was armed, they decided otherwise. They didn't look much like bandits – one was a woman in a silk bathrobe and the other a man walking on wooden sandals.

"How curious!"

"Oh, that's just Princess Maddox," said the driver. "She was heir to some small kingdom in Austria until she married an English gent. Comes up and down all the time. And 'er servant, I guess."

He did slow down a bit, but the travelers ignored them, talking in their nonsense language so fast that the words were impossible to pick apart. "How strange, those Austrians!"

"Indeed, marm."

* * *

Visiting the small village close to her home was always a pleasant walk for Nadezhda Maddox, Princess of Sibui. It was a much less hassle than having a carriage take her to Town for simple things like groceries. She knew most of the people in the village, where she felt more at home than London's high society despite her aristocratic blood. She usually brought a man along to carry the special items that were too small to have delivered, but now she had Mugen, at least until the next ship to sail to the Orient.

"Sa! Why so many? Are we having a feast?"

"Since when are you opposed to a feast?" she replied. "All you've done since you got here is stuff yourself. And yes, we are. Bingley-san is coming to discuss business with Brian and he's staying a few days." She continued on in Japanese, ignoring the people who happened to be traveling down the dusty road, fully aware of their gawking. "He is bringing Georgiana."

"You say it like it's a bad thing."

She glanced at Mugen, laden with packages, but did not stop walking. "You know, Jorgi-chan isn't a little girl anymore."

Mugen was irreverent as always. "So?" It was a good sign.

"So what I mean is, they have rules in this country, about what men and women do together."

"I _noticed_."

"Mugen, you're not being serious."

"What am I supposed to be serious about? Jorgi is a kid. She is ... what, ten?"

"Twelve." She sighed. "Her father is going to be more protective of her. And more suspicious of her going off into the woods with men. From now on, I go with you."

"You decided this with Brian-chan?"

"We didn't need to discuss it. Brian's English. He pretends not to be, but he is. English ladies are proper."

"Proper?" The translation didn't quite make it through the Japanese.

"Respectable."

"Ah," he said. "So, you're going to chaperone me? What is the worst that could happen?"

"You're seen holding hands with her by a local and you have to marry her."

Mugen stopped in his tracks. Nadezhda intentionally kept her face in an expression to disguise whether she was being serious or not. Only half of her was. Georgie _was_ only twelve. Hesitating first, Mugen slackened. "And what if I refuse?"

"To what, marry her?"

"Yeah."

"I'll make you."

They stood in perfect silence. Not a bird chirped for that one moment. There were no passengers on the roads.

Mugen dropped the packages, drew his sword, and swung all in the very same movement. Nadezhda had already ducked out of the way. Her wakizashi was blocked only by the metal beneath his shoes as he tumbled to the ground. He kicked her sword away and rolled across the road, back onto his feet as Nadezhda charged. Their blades drew across each other with a horrible shriek and the sparks of steel striking steel, until the dust settled. Nadezhda had the edge of her blade at Mugen's neck. He had the tip of his pointed at her chest.

Without ceremony, he pulled away and replaced his blade in its sheath. "You've gotten good."

"I am a childless housewife. I have time to practice."

She replaced her blade and he picked the packages back up, and they resumed their journey.

"Are people really so upset about these things?" Mugen said. "If her reputation is so important, she should have a man protecting her."

"But not _alone_ with her, because even he cannot be trusted."

"Heh. Jorgi-chan doesn't need a man. Certainly not a gaijin. She can take care of herself."

"Yes, but her father doesn't _know_ that."

He huffed. "Fine. Their country, their rules."

They spoke no further on the subject.

* * *

The carriage from Derbyshire arrived and the three Bingleys (two human, one animal) were received with delight. Monkey went almost everywhere Bingley did, usually because of Jane's unilateral declaration that as much as she loved her husband, she would not have his wild animal running around their bedroom and making a fuss when he was gone, which is precisely what Monkey did when his owner went away. Georgiana was the only child old enough to fully manage him, and this time, she was with her father.

The young Miss Bingley was not so much traveling around on her father's coattails as she was going to visit her Aunt Nadezhda. While she was on good terms with every member of her very extended family, there were certain people that she truly seemed to like and it was obvious enough who they were – Nadezhda, Brian, and Geoffrey. Her father was borderline. Her mother fell in with everyone else; consequently, it was a joint decision by her parents that she would spend time with her father over her mother, as he seemed to be the closest one to her.

Charles Bingley was not unaware of her friendship with the disreputable Mugen, but it was all managed through Nadezhda, and he held the princess' judgment in high regard. Besides, if he ever insulted Her Highness in front of Brian, Charles was quite sure he would have his head cut off within seconds. So Georgie loved to play outside with Nadezhda and Mugen. _Let her be a child a bit longer_. He believed, looking back on it, that his sisters had both assumed the position of being ladies too quickly, which had negative effects on their personalities for years.

They arrived in time to clean up for dinner, which was relatively normal English food. It was always a gamble to visit the Maddox house as to whether you would be sitting on the floor eating raw fish or at a proper table. He did find Oriental food interesting, but he had spent most of the trip incredibly sick from all of the unfamiliar spices.

"Ah, English food," Brian said. "The more tasteless it is the better."

"He's talking nonsense," Bingley said to Her Highness, gesturing to his plate of beef. "He would have been salivating at this in India."

"There is something to be said for real meat, yes, all right. But how about dinner with that martial arts master?"

"What, before we were running for our lives back to Hong Kong?"

"_We_ were running. _You_ were being carried because your back was nothing but bruises. And you were foolish enough to try every dish they offered you without asking what it was." Brian turned to his wife. "I would take you there, but Mugen ruined the reputation of all foreigners _forever_ in that village by beating the master senseless."

Mugen, who had yet to contribute, said in Japanese, "I refuse to lose because Bingali was injured and you run like a woman."

"I told you, I have no control over it!" He turned to his wife again. "Nady, do I really – "

But his wife had already broken into laughter. She tried to smother it in her napkin, but to no avail.

* * *

Nadezhda had succeeded in getting Brian and Charles into a sake drinking contest with each other, which of course ended with them both collapsing and being dragged to their prospective rooms. The servants had all gone to sleep when she changed into more ragged clothing and woke Georgiana. "Put this on."

They lived not more than a few miles from Town. The two adults were quite capable of running it, Georgie managing to keep up behind them. Fortunately the bad section of London was closer than Town proper. Mugen wrapped a shawl over his face; from a distance, he could almost be mistaken for an English dockworker, except for his shoes. Georgie was also dressed like a boy, which she could still pull off.

"We just watch," he said to her.

They slipped in the side door of the warehouse, or what had once been a warehouse, or some kind of slaughterhouse. It was a square building, empty of furniture except for boxes and the occasional chair, and dirty straw on the floor. Gas lamps lit the middle of the room, and the men gathered around it, already shouting as the two men entered the ring, one wearing only an undershirt and the other nothing above the waist. The man had not hit the bell with a spoon before they started pummeling each other. When it got too gruesome, Georgie covered her eyes, or Nadezhda did it for her. There was no referee; it continued until one man wound up unconscious on the floor and was dragged off, while the men (and some women) cheered for the muscle man. As the bets got higher, there were fewer and fewer takers to fight. Georgie sat on Mugen's shoulders. "Are you gonna fight him?"

"...Could get in trouble," he whispered.

"But you would win!"

That was enough incentive for Mugen, who passed her to Nadezhda. "Don't get yourself killed. Because if you do, we're running. We're not rescuing you."

"Ha. I know." He stepped into the ring formed by men, still mostly covered.

This was not the kind of place where they wrote down (or even asked) the names of the challengers. Mugen got into the same pose as the champion – two balled fists up in front of his face, and the bets were being shouted against him, especially when they saw him in stilt sandals.

"Listen, Dutchman, I ain't gonna be respons'ble fer ya," said the champion.

Doing his best impression of an English accent, Mugen said, "Me neither."

"All right little man, let's see what you can do!" said the announcer, and rang the bell.

The champion gave Mugen a moment – perhaps he felt like being a bit nice – but Mugen did nothing. So the man – apparently his name was Harry, or so the announcer called him – charged forward.

That was when Mugen dropped his hands behind his back and dropped to the floor, holding himself up by his palms and letting his raised foot meet the approaching fist. Knuckles hit metal, and the crunching was quite audible. Mugen pushed himself up, taking the fighter down with his foot, and stood over him. "Give up," he whispered. "Or I'll break both your hands."

"That wasn't fair!"

"You are bigger than me. I do what I can."

Harry looked up at the man he was facing, but the light was obscured so he couldn't see much of his face. He pulled away, and Mugen gave him a chance to get to his feet. One arm he held up, but it was bloodied and red. The other was still fine.

"Round one for the Dutchman!" said the announcer. "Round two!"

Mugen still held his arms behind his back as the bell rang. He stood there, unmoving, before his opponent. The crowd was torn between booing and just waiting to see what the wily little foreigner would do. Mugen physically was much smaller than his opponent, and would have been a whole head shorter if not for his geta shoes. He was not overly muscular. He did not have a lot of weight.

"Fight like a man!"

Mugen said nothing. He just waited. He was in front of Harry, but when the muscled Harry charged, he wasn't there. He leapt on his shoulders, and then over him, landing on the ground as Harry went into the audience. There were no barriers, so it was not unknown for the first row to get injured, but usually not for these reasons. Harry barely had time to reorient himself before Mugen kicked one of his legs out from under him at the knee, actually grabbing the man's hair so he would not fall forward onto some smaller audience member, but tugging him so he fell backwards, flat onto the dirty floor with a thud. Mugen put a shoe on his chest again. "Hurt me, not audience." He kicked him, and Harry rolled away, slowly getting to his feet.

The announcer approached Mugen. "Look, Mister, if you can understand English, you have to use your hands. Okay? None of this foot stuff."

Mugen huffed, and kicked off his sandals. Only then did Harry get back into stance. This time, Mugen made no attempt to imitate his style. He drew one of his hands up behind him and the other out flat in front of him, palm up.

"Man, I'm never goin' to Dutchland!"

"Fight like an Englishman!"

Mugen ignored his decriers and stayed in position. This time when Harry came charging, he stepped sideways, caught the man's arm, and twisted the wrist so hard it turned Harry over and he hit the ground again. Mugen towered over him.

"'lright!" Harry shouted. Mugen offered him a hand, and he painfully took it, as one hand was broken, and the other wrist badly sprained. Compared to how the previous combatant had fared against him, beaten to a pulp in the head, he was still relatively intact.

Mugen bowed to a dizzy Harry, and the announcer raised Mugen's arm. "Winner!" There were both cheers and jeers, and after collecting his prize money, Mugen made a hasty exit while Nadezhda and Georgie made their own, meeting up half a mile away, and began a more leisurely walk back to the house.

"You count," he said, handing the pile of bills and coins to Nadezhda. "All right, Jorgi-chan, what did I do right?"

"You threw him down three times!"

"And how did I do that?"

"With your legs!"

As they reached the edges of the small estate, Mugen stopped. "How did I really beat him? I was smaller than he was. I was weaker than he was. I was shorter than he was."

"You got out of the way."

"Right, little _ookami,_" he said with a playful pat on her head. "The others, they stood up against him. One heavy object hitting another heavy object until one goes down – always the smaller one. Stupid gaijin. If your opponent wants the wall behind you so badly, give it to him." He leaned over. "You always remember that."

"What if I'm fighting someone smaller than me?"

He smiled. "Then just be kind. That poor person."

* * *

Darcy felt something in the pit of his stomach as their little boat approached the island. After they left for the Isle of Man proper, he felt pangs of remorse for subjecting Grégoire to this – no, for subjecting _himself_ to this. The last time he was here was when he was five and ten, but he remembered everything, for it seemed as if nothing had changed.

The solicitor was there to greet them on the bright fall morning. "Hello, Mr. Darcy. Mr. Bellamont. We've cleaned up the place a bit – both for the sale, and for your own inspection. Obviously it's been closed up for years so there was a bit of work to do."

Behind him was the house, that long, strange one-level house. The previous owner (before the Darcys) had just kept adding room after room, instead of building another level above. It was one long hallway to the end, where his uncle had spent his days and nights.

"We brought in some food and a cook. You'll be staying how long?"

"Not more than a few days, at most," Darcy said, already wanting to leave. "Thank you."

In the immediate rooms there were several to the side, and they heard a maid singing to herself. She scuttled out, curtseyed to them, and asked them when they wanted dinner. Besides that, she made herself invisible.

It was just room after room as Darcy opened the first set of doors to reveal a sitting room that had obviously been recently dusted, but the furniture was as he vaguely remembered it. Was this the room he sat in while his father talked with his uncle, undoubtedly about _him?_ He could not remember. The next room looked the same, almost exactly – except for a pile of books in the corner that had not been dusted. "He liked to read," he said to Grégoire.

The next room was the same, except more books; all in piles, none on shelves. It was not a room meant for bookshelves, just another sitting room. How much sitting could a person do?

It went on and on. Each room was more books, to the point where there were actual cases of them, and furniture shoved aside to make room. Everything looked the same – they had changed nothing, just abandoned it. There was even a chair overturned for some reason. Grégoire set it up properly before they moved on.

"This is it," he said. "They might have cleared it, I don't know." But he opened the door, and discovered they had not. They both stepped in, the silence impenetrable.

His uncle's room was exactly as he remembered it, except there was no longer a mattress, just the wooden frame of the single person bed. All of the walls were bookshelves except the one with the window, facing out to the sea. There were books piled up on the dresser, beside the bed, under the bed – everywhere, as if he had just been finishing up a few novels yesterday. But Gregory Darcy was long dead. There was a closet full of clothes, but they both coughed when it was opened and the dust burst forth. The ancient garb of their father's generation hung before them, half-eaten by moths.

"Brother," Grégoire said, and Darcy turned around. Grégoire focused on the desk before the window, where their uncle undoubtedly sat for hours on end. He lifted the lid and opened it. Inside, aside from the pens and bottles of now dried ink and the knickknacks, there were piles and piles of paper, all filled with writing. Some were even hand-bound. Grégoire picked up a bound one. The title read 'November 1778 – October 1779.' "He wrote."

What mysteries were contained in there? Did he really want to know? Darcy avoided the question by instead opening the dresser drawers. Aside from the yellowed shirts and hair powder, there were portraits. "Look at this," he said, calling Grégoire away from the journals. He held up two portraitures, connected by a metal bracket. "Our father and uncle." They looked very similar, with only their names inscribed on the back to identify them. Each one looked maybe one and ten, two and ten; they were about the same age as Geoffrey was now. The resemblance was similar but certainly not identical. Geoffrey favored his mother in many ways.

Darcy looked down at the journal in Grégoire's hands. "Do you think he wanted someone to read them?"

"His death, he planned. He could have burned them beforehand if that was the case."

"Are you so sure he did not want to be forgotten?"

"No," Grégoire said. "I want to find out."

...Next Chapter ... (no title at the moment)


	23. More Notes from the Underground

Manner of Devotion

by DJ Clawson

"_Everybody likes to go their own way--to choose their own time and manner of devotion."_

_Jane Austen, Mansfield Park_

Author's Note: My policy: Update twice a week or when a chapter reaches 5-10 comments, whichever comes first.

* * *

Chapter 23 - More Notes from the Underground 

Darcy busied himself with the solicitor for the rest of the morning and most of the early afternoon. He was willing to sell, but he needed time to remove some personal items from the property – boxes and boxes of books. He authorized the hiring of men to package them, and wrote a quick letter to his wife saying that they were safely arrived and would be staying for perhaps a few days to finish up some business. Only after seeing everything was in order did he return to his brother, who was still at the desk, papers piled everywhere.

"Our uncle was quite prolific," Grégoire said. "Here." He passed Darcy some yellowed parchment.

_1st August 177 _

_Geoffrey sent me a new book today. More, accurately, it arrived, so he must have sent it some time ago. It is an original of Boccaccio's Decameron. How coincidental, to receive a set of stories told by people who have gone into exile to escape illness. I wonder if Geoffrey read it at any point or he merely bought it because he presumed I did not already own it. The library father provided is already impressive, I must say. In that respect, I have not been ill-treated. _

_12th August 177 _

_My delay in the next passage from the daily life of this madman was not of my own design. Even now my (blot) strength fails me. Dr came to bleed me yesterday, and I was stupid enough to scream, which meant more bleeding, for (blot) only a madman would scream at having a metal poker stabbed into his flesh, no? More tomorrow. _

_18th August 177 _

_I look back. 'More tomorrow.' A week has passed. I could ask Nurse to transcribe my entries, I suppose, were there truly anything worth saying other than that I hate her, I hate Dr. , I hate them all so much. _

_19th August 177 _

_Apologies, journal. I spoke out of frustration, not actual hatred. The staff believes they are doing me right. They are only the best. What do they think – they will cure me and I will go home? I am dead anyway in _ _England__; I cannot go home. LET ME BE MAD! _

"If I was him," Darcy said, "I would not want this public."

"We are hardly public," Grégoire said. "I am not proposing to paste it on the wall at Pemberley." Looking up at Darcy, he reclaimed the papers. "You need not read them, Darcy."

Darcy nodded numbly, and left Grégoire alone, returning to his sorting of the book collection.

* * *

Dinner was served after Vespers. 

"Darcy," Grégoire said. "You can leave tomorrow."

"What?"

"I'll oversea the removal of his things. You can do the rest from England."

Darcy's reply was simply, "Did you read any more of the journals?"

"Yes."

There was silence again. Grégoire watched his brother fall into it, moving the food around on his plate.

"Did you hear what I said?"

"Yes, I did!" Darcy said. "He was my uncle, too."

"Because I can – "

"_He was my uncle too!_" The sound of the glass slamming on the wooden table was enough to startle both of them. They let the sound fade into an uncomfortable silence as the maid took their plates. "Excuse me," he said in a much smaller voice as he excused himself, leaving Grégoire at the table.

"Is the master all right?" said the maid.

Grégoire eventually found his brother on a bench by the sea, without his hat or overcoat, staring out into the inky ocean of night.

"You can approach," Darcy said. "I don't bite."

Grégoire sat down beside him, a folio in his hands. "I'm sorry. If you want, we'll burn them."

"Do you think it is what he would have wanted?"

"I have no idea. I didn't know him. He did not know himself." Grégoire smoothed his hand over the cover of the folio. "I do suspect that he helped you at one time, and that he might not have been as ill as we all believe. Anyone would go mad under the torment he describes."

"You seem well."

Grégoire managed a half-smile. "Thank you for the compliment, but you know very well my intention." He handed the folio to Darcy. "This is the rest of what I've read so far. There is far more."

_27th March 177 _

_Geoffrey visited today. He did not look well and I did not look well, so it was mutual. Father is dead. He died in his sleep. I should be so lucky. I think constantly of death. Did I wish it on father, even by accident? Do my thoughts have power? Will any of this affect anyone? The plan was to remove me from the picture. Were we successful? _

_29th March 177 _

_I do not understand why I have these thoughts that are so terrible I cannot transcribe them. I am shamed. I did not think this way at Pemberl – I cannot write it. It hurts too much. I was afraid. I was irrational. I had thoughts there that were bad, but not like this. Now I think things in my boredom that any person should think are crazy. I am no longer borderline. I am beyond the Pale, as they say. _

_14th April 177 _

_Excuse my absence. I was detained for some time after bashing Dr. in the head when he attempted to bleed my brain. My brain! I need my brain! It is all I have left, even in its tarnished form. So they tied me to the bed and left me like a naughty child to be punished. They took away everything sharp. They would not let me go outside. I decided not to be the master of Pemberley's fate – can I not be the master of my own? _

_3rd June 1773 _

_Geoffrey visited. He is engaged to be married to an earl's daughter. The family he does not care for too much, but he is in love. I could see it on his face; it lit up when he talked of her. I hope it lasts. I hope he for once restrains all of his impulses; that all of his wild oats were sown and there are none left. _

_He agreed to stop the treatments. I am all joy! Though some of me remains flesh, my spirit is happiness, and my blood is on fire – and it will stay in me! I take a tonic for sleep, or if I am agitated, but it is of my own choosing. He also changed my nurse. I like her better, though she does treat me like a child; anything is preferable to the previous assignment. I can rest now. _

"Does it go on like this?" As usual, Darcy's calm voice masked a wellspring of emotions.

"I imagine so."

Darcy handed back the folio. "Then let us keep reading."

* * *

The well-paid solicitor returned the next day on a boat laden with trunks and another filled with men for the Isle of Man to do the packing. There was quite literally a library to rival Pemberley in this strangely-constructed ranch house, and it would not be an easy task. Darcy looked at each title as he passed them on to be packed with great care. The doubles would either go to Grégoire's private collection – if he ever desired to have one – or a poorhouse school. His uncle had been quite well read. 

Grégoire sat at the desk, reading through the letters his namesake set to ink for some reason or another. At lunch he shared some with Darcy.

_5th July 1773 _

_Interesting to note that there is general improvement in my health since the end of my treatment. This is of course coming from a man whose word cannot be trusted, after all I am insane, but I have more energy, and feel calmer. I go outside more. There are wonderful ruins on this island. Like me, they are slowly turning to dust, but at least the moss on them is quite beautiful. Yesterday I saw a bird. I wrote the executor in _ _London__ to inform Geoffrey that if they have a book on birds native to the __Isle of Man__, then he should send it on. _

_December 3rd 177 _

_My brother did send me a large shipment of books that arrived just today in a great trunk, and I must assume they were selected at random, because there is no lack of variety here. For some reason beyond my already-flawed comprehension of this world, a large stack of them were women's novels, the sort that make me think the printing press a contemptible invention. There was a book on the birds of _ _Scotland__, for which I am (relatively) grateful. Perhaps most interesting was a copy of Bede's The Ecclesiastical History of the English People, a rather old translation but one I can read well enough. It came in two volumes, one which seems to be just a collection of his letters about his travels to other churches. _

_January 14th 177 _

_I am fascinated by this Saint Bede, the father of English history, not for his tales but his experiences in the dark ages, wandering around the isle and the people he met along the way. He records a lost culture, which at his own time was dying; I wonder if he knew that or considered it. He must have. I will write the solicitor for more books if they are available. _

_October 29th 177 _

_Large shipment of books of every sort. I am to be a truly enlightened madman if I manage to read them all, and I think I shall. There is little else to do with my time besides this journal itself, and what do I have to record? The time of the tides? The servants are not much for conversation. I feel well. Did I make a mistake? Did my isolation cure me? I sought escape and have found it, and found it most unsettling. _

_4th June 178 _

_The truth is confirmed: I am not fit for human contact. It is a relief in a way, confirming the rightness of the path I chose, though looking back; Father was most persuasive about it. _

_Geoffrey came just yesterday and brought his wife, Lady Anne Fitzwilliam, and his son, Fitzwilliam Darcy (poor soul, such a name!). I do not think Geoffrey was mistaken in his choice of bride in the brief moments we spoke, though she was terrified of me and I of her, though I made more of an effort to hide it. She was wearing mother's jewels. This is Mrs. Darcy now. Geoffrey is Mr. Darcy of Pemberley and Derbyshire. He has assumed the role meant for me, and he has made a presentable depiction of a happy family. _

_His son, not six, looks much like him, but with wily hair as permitted in youth. Either no one told him my condition (why would they?) or he did not understand it, because he had no hesitation in talking with me. I spent nearly an hour talking to him in the sitting room. I held him in my arms and I kissed him. Would my son have been so precious? _

_I cannot spend much time on contemplation of this sort, as it makes me ache. Geoffrey is himself in turmoil. I pray this is not new information to the reader, but he confessed to me that he was not three years into his marriage before he had a bastard son. With his steward's wife, of all people! Poor Isabella Wickham. Poor George Wickham, unknowing in all of this. He thinks it's his. The ruse has worked perfectly. George is too good for this world; he does not deserve the deception. Neither does Lady Anne, but I do not know her, but I have many fond memories of George, who was trained to be my steward under my father's consent. _

_5th June 178 _

_I grapple with all of this deception. My death was a deception. My brother's affairs (for I do not know truly how many he is off having, but I will venture a guess that he will have more than one child outside of wedlock) are a deception. He said he would not tell Anne because he needed her to love him, for at least their son's sake. "A son should have two parents who love each other," I believe he said. And Geoffrey does love Anne, but has never been a master of his baser instincts. _

_It is with deception that Our L-rd and Savior was arrested and crucified – but then again, he knew all along and did not alter the course of events one bit, though well he could have. I have never considered myself a religious man, but I do not know any religious men except those who appear in books, so I have no real scale on which to judge. I know the bible well enough, and I have my selections of ecclesiastical books. What was Jesus thinking, on the cross? Did He not think, "For a fool I was, not to just be rid of Judas?" But of course not; He died for a higher cause. He allowed it all to unfold because He knew the path of fate, but He was alone in that. I do not know the path of fate; it unfolds before me after I have already made my choices and cannot retract them. But that is true of everyone. Do we truly make mistakes, or has G-d already decided all of our paths and we merely follow them, unwittingly?_

_What were his designs for me then? Or, the more appropriate pondering is why He chose to give me this illness that boils my brain. There is a key somewhere; I do not see it. I will ask Him when I die. It will be the first question out of my mouth. _

"You remember it?"

"It is not something you forget," Darcy said. "They did not tell me he was mad. They just said I was not to speak of him to anyone else, even Nurse."

"What did Lady Anne think of him?"

He shrugged. "That memory my mind did not store. She was my mother. I was five. She was not yet a person, just a mother." He continued, "I've seen the book he discusses – the one by St. Bede. It's been packed to be sent to Pemberley. I imagine you'll have some interest in it when we return."

Grégoire nodded.

* * *

On their third day, Darcy did not find his brother in the bedroom, or any of the others. When questioned, he was told his brother was outside. 

Grégoire Bellamont was not immediately found. The bench was empty. Darcy walked along the shore. He had played here as a child. The ocean seemed endless on a misty day. In the distance he could see ruins. Yes, that was right. There used to be a monastery on the island, before the Dissolution. Moss grew over the remaining stone frame. Only a few arches still stood. Grégoire sat on a fallen column.

"He starts his story from the beginning," Grégoire said, not looking up from the text. "I would warn you before reading this."

He paused, but he did say, "I am not afraid. Let me see it."

_17th May 178 _

_Perhaps I should have begun at the beginning. Hello, journal. My name is Geoffrey Darcy. I am the son of Henry Darcy and the grandson of Philip d'Arcy, who came from _ _France__ to marry the sister of the second Duke of __Devonshire__, and as part of the dowry, granted our family plentiful lands in Derbyshire. I remember little of my grandfather; suffice to say, he was not the first Darcy of Pemberley, but I believe the fourth. He was the nephew of the one before him, on the side of the family that remained in _ _France__. But are we not all Frenchmen? If life began in the Fertile Crescent, then we must have all come from there, and the last stop before _ _England__ could only have been _ _France_

_But I am probably going on and on about meaningless things. I was raised at Pemberley, with my younger brother Geoffrey as my playmate, and we did manage to get ourselves into a good deal of trouble, for there is such person better at boyish pranks than the young Geoffrey had been. In this regard I stood in his shadow. I preferred the shadows. I am told I was lively enough as a boy, but rather shy. _

_As I stood on the threshold of manhood, being two and ten, I began to have thoughts which disturbed my tutor when I expressed them, so I promptly stopped, as any boy does when they sense they are doing something wrong. I do not remember what I first said, but I definitely asked him if he was intending to kill me at some point. I do not know if I really thought that. Often things fly in and out of my head. The tutor was changed, and I said nothing to the next one. I became almost silent, and of course, this itself was odd. I was afraid to say anything, not able to tell what was a good thing to say and what was bad. My answers were often restricted to positive and negative replies in single words or a nod of the head. _

_My father brought in a man to inspect my ears, and I played along. Of course he found no irregularity, but he prescribed some concoction that made me monstrously ill. After two days of losing my stomach, in my delirium, I told my nurse everything. It was not so much a confession as it was a series of things I no longer could hold myself back from saying. I have no recollection of it whatsoever, but she reported it all to my father, who questioned me thoroughly when I recovered my senses and asked me why I said those things. I could have said I was delirious (it was true), but I have never been good at lying to anyone and I confessed that some of the things he told me I said were true, in that I believed them, or at least thought them. I thought people talked about me behind my back and conspired against me, not just to undermine me but to do me physical harm. I was afraid. _

_He brought in a doctor whom I immediately disliked, and my fears were this time not unfounded. He prescribed a diet for me of milk and bread and nothing else. I remember my first bleeding. I was now four and ten and of some stature, so my natural reaction was to strike him to get him away from me, which only tore my skin and he broke his arm in the fall. I was tied to the bed and remained there for three days on nothing but bread and milk, a prisoner in my own house. My father visited me with his primary occupation of looking concerned. Then the doctor bled me again, this time with my limbs already tied, and in a vast quantity. In my weakened state I started talking nonsense, or so I am told. But then the doctor was called away and I recovered without his presence, and said I felt better than I did, and for a time, was believed. _

_I cannot bring myself to write about the first ball I attended. Please do not ask that of me. Suffice to say, the doctor came back, and again I was deemed ill, and again I suffered, and again I recovered. _

_Geoffrey was my lone supporter. Not that my father had no care for me, but only my brother believed me when I said that the doctor was an evil man who made me worse. My little brother was blessed with all of the social graces I was not; he emerged in society to attend his first ball at not five and ten, and charmed all of the ladies, and then at great length described exactly what charming a lady could result in later in the evening, when he had her alone. He did not understand his own debauchery, the innocent rake. I, myself, could not dream of such a personal connection. I would not let my servants see me naked, much less a woman, must less touch her ... How could I have an heir? _

_At this point in my history I suggested to my father that I was not fit to be master of Pemberley. He seemed to age right before my eyes in that one meeting, his despair flooding the room, and he begged for me to go through one more set of treatments. I don't wish to dwell on them, as even the memories are painful. There are scars on my arms where they cut me. By the end of the month I was thin as a rake (not the kind my brother was) and sometimes my eyes failed to focus. Finally Father relented, and the whole scheme was cooked up and presented to Geoffrey. _

_Though in these pages I record my brother's dalliances and adultery, he was truly a brother to me in every way, readily assuming the yoke of Pemberley and our half of Derbyshire so that I could rest. He did not want the position, but he did not say as much to our father (at least in front of me). He could have easily refused, and this boy of six and ten set his whole life on a sterile course from which there could be no variation so that I might know peace. There are no words to say how grateful I was and still am. Father eventually agreed, and so quietly we signed all the papers disinheriting me, should I ever choose to show my face in England again and try to reclaim my lost throne, and then I went riding. We covered the horse with pig's blood and I rode away from the only home I had ever known in a wagon. It was the dead of night and the last time I saw my father alive. I could not write my brother directly – only through a solicitor in _ _London__ who did not know my real identity. I was in anguish until Geoffrey wrote me, assuring me that everything had gone well, and that he would always care for me, and he would visit me when he could. I was not, it seemed, to be completely forgotten. He refused to do so. I saw him once before our father's death, and then immediately afterwards. I wished him only the best and I still mean it. _

Darcy handed back the papers. "That is enough for today." Without explanation, he walked off. Grégoire did not follow. No explanation was needed.

* * *

That night, Darcy could not find sleep. He did not have his sleeping draught with him. He wandered the long hallway of sitting room after sitting room. Most of the books had been packed and taken away, or were lying in open trunks. At the end, only moonlight illuminated the bedroom. Neither of them wanted to sleep in it. 

Grégoire was asleep, but if he was still adhering to his wild schedule, he would be up for prayer in a few hours, even in the dead of night. For the time being, Darcy was alone. He carried his candlestick in and used the flame to light the old candle at the desk, not quite melted all the way down. He set his own stick down by the dresser and opened the drawer. He had not been thoroughly through it, and the objects were foreign to him, especially in the dim light. There were many small miniatures, carved out of wood – clearly his uncle had whittled as a hobby. There were numerous birds, horses, and a few human figures, not distinct enough to recognize. Perhaps they were not meant to be a specific person.

He would have all of the items put in his own luggage and taken back to Pemberley. He had already decided it; there was no need to dwell on it now. He turned to the desk and opened it. Only one folio remained, still covered in dust. He wiped it away and saw the date. He must have been four and ten, maybe five and ten – this was the last journal, unless Grégoire had removed another one. He sat down and brought the light up closer as he began to read it, mouthing some of the words to himself. It was mainly theological or philosophical arguments Gregory seemed to be having with himself (Gregory himself commented that he was not sure whether he was mad or just bored).

_Why am I doing this to myself?_ He could see there were only a few pages left. There was no need to guess at why that was. _Perhaps I am as torturous to myself as Grégoire is to his body_. He sighed and turned the sheets over with great care to the last two entries.

_16th July 179 _

_Lady Anne Darcy, formerly Lady Anne Fitzwilliam, is dead. If that were the least of the news, I would be satisfied. She left behind a daughter, Georgiana. She died cursing her husband – she had discovered his infidelities (there were now two bastards as living records of it), one with her own maid. Geoffrey visited me not in anguish over it, as he could have done, for this actually happened two years ago, between which there was no contact between us except for him to send me books. _

_I saw him yesterday and he looked older than I did. Still distraught over his wife's death, he cursed himself as easily as she had cursed him, but that was not even his main concern. His daughter, whom I have never met, is apparently well, but Fitzwilliam is not. Or, so he says. There are hints of the same affliction that seems to curse our bloodline now. He said he had not taken Fitzwilliam to a doctor, as his memories were as tainted as mine and he could not imagine inflicting that horror on his own son. Instead he just wished me to talk with Fitzwilliam, who was having trouble in school, not because of an academic failing but because he did not move easily among people he did not know, and had trouble getting to know them. _

_I did not relate to my nephew the extent of my sufferings, or the nature of my illness, though by now he did know why I live here and that I am mad. In fact, he seemed surprised that we had a somewhat normal conversation, where I did most of the listening and he told me about school and his sister and his friend George, the steward's son (I held my tongue! I bit it until it bled, almost). Slowly I pried from him some of his innermost thoughts, and was not shocked to find they mirrored some of my own, but I told him to dismiss them. He had no younger brother; he had no options. He did not believe himself to be sick. Perhaps without a doctor's pronouncement, he never would be. He would just be a shy boy who would turn into a shy man without many social graces but a strong sense of responsibility, as he already seemed to have. Hopefully he would marry well, and produce an heir, and run Pemberley quietly and have a happy life. _

_Or is that how it was supposed to happen for me? _

_I cannot wait any longer to find out. It is decided. _

_23rd July 179 _

_How little I have to say to the world as I pack for my exit. Should I curse people? Bless people? Should I leave my servants a tip? _

_I have had enough. There is nothing more left for me, except to take up space in this room that I cannot bear to leave. In fact, I have more business with G-d, though I will be doomed to hell for this. Or perhaps we are wrong, and I will not. Either way, I have some question for Him, and some requests from Him – that Geoffrey should find some peace within himself for his crimes, that all three of his sons and his daughter should live well, that Fitzwilliam should have a normal life, that Lady Anne is in heaven for all of her sufferings as the wronged wife. _

_There is one last flash of insight. Most men do not get to finish their own stories. I do. _

_FINIS. _

"Darcy?"

It was like coming out of a dream. Perhaps he had fallen asleep. But no, there they were, the final letters large on the page. "Grégoire." He looked at his watch. "Oh, yes, of course. Which one is this?"

"Vigils."

Darcy held back whatever comments he normally felt compelled to make, slumping back into the chair. "I won't keep you."

Grégoire looked down at the open folio, then at Darcy. "I have some time. Is it so terrible?"

"It depends. He was a suicide. He is doomed to Hell, is he not?"

Grégoire swallowed but did not answer. He read the pages in silence and put the folio down. "Have you been to his grave?"

"I confess not."

"I found it today. Do you want to see it?"

At half-past three in the morning? _Why not?_ "Yes, very much so."

The grave was not far from the abbey walls, so much so that it was hard to tell whether it was not on consecrated ground. The stone had only his name and birth and death dates. The day of death was a day later than the journal entry – they must have discovered him the next morning. When precisely he died was a mystery that would never be solved. They had lost that piece of information.

Grégoire said his Latin prayers, whatever they were. When he was finished, Darcy spoke.

"Hello, Uncle. We've come to bring you home."

... Next Chapter - Joseph Bennet's Proposal


	24. Joseph Bennet's Proposal

Manner of Devotion

by DJ Clawson

"_Everybody likes to go their own way--to choose their own time and manner of devotion."_

_Jane Austen, Mansfield Park_

Author's Note: My policy: Update twice a week or when a chapter reaches 5-10 comments, whichever comes first.

* * *

Chapter 24 - Joseph Bennet's Proposal

"Oh Edmund, what a fine thing for our girls!"

"What?" Mr. Bennet said, hardly looking up from his paper. "Has Netherfield Park been let at last? Again?"

"Oh Mr. Bennet! You tease me so! You will drive me to distraction!" She said, and scurried over to him and kissed him on his forehead.

"Always my intention, my dear," he said, and she hurried off to do some errand, real or imagined. It did worry him that her brain had been damaged by a stroke, and that sometimes her words or actions could not be properly accounted for, but on this particular case, Mr. Bennet knew precisely what she was talking about. Dr. Bertrand was leaving, set to head back to Town, and she was watching his departure from the window.

It was Mary who entered the sitting room, a book in hand, so he did not even have to get up to find her. "Mary," he said, in the sort of fatherly tone that made a daughter call to attention. "Why ever do you play with that man's emotions? At this point it's positively rude of you."

"Papa!" she said. "I am not. I have been completely civil to him."

"Nonsense. He has been coming several times a week now for almost a month to call on you, and you are in love with him, and he is in love with you. Yet you have given him every subtle indication that if he were to make an offer of marriage, you would reject it. That is my conjecture, anyway, or he would have done it weeks ago."

She pursed her lips. "It is not so simple."

"Please." He gestured. "Sit down and explain to me all of the complexities."

"There is – well, he is in Town, and I could hardly – "

"Yes, leave Longbourn while I am still alive. I agree with you on this point, if you would be so kind as to grace us with your presence and Joseph's presence. I dread the idea of an empty nest. Have you said as much to him?"

"You mean, have I told him I have no wish to leave Longbourn until I am forced by the entail?"

"Precisely."

"Yes," she said.

"And what did he say to this, our Town doctor?"

"He said he would manage."

Mr. Bennet nodded. "He's a young fellow and the situation would be temporary. Apparently he does not think thirty miles so far at all. What other nonsense bothers you?" But instead of responding, she looked away. "It cannot be Joseph. He adores the man. And if you think he is too young to realize that you may well marry Dr. Bertrand, you are underestimating your son."

"He may not wish it. I promised that Joseph's wishes would always come first."

He paused. "He _may_ not? You have not had this conversation with him?"

"... I have not. No, Papa."

"Goodness! What are you waiting for? Ask the poor boy already and be done with it!"

"Papa!"

"Mary," he said a bit more sternly, "the best way to decipher his wishes is to ask him about them. All of these studies will do you no good if you are not capable of reaching that logical conclusion."

She colored at his inflection.

"Now ask him. Not this moment precisely, but by dinner at least, or I will tell your mother that Dr. Bertrand is really Mr. Collins and she will begin insisting that you marry him immediately and save us all!"

She protested, but it worked. So four daughters had married without much help from him. Now at least he was doing something to rectify the situation.

* * *

After pacing for some time, Mary finally entered the nursery, where Joseph was finishing lunch. "Mummy!"

"Joseph," she said. "Come. We are going to take a walk."

Of course it was not so easily done, as it was now October and he had to be bundled up properly, something Mary did herself, but at least they made it out the door, walking slowly down the path that circled around the grounds. "Joseph," she began, "what do you think of Dr. Bertrand?"

"I like him a lot," he said, looking up at her. "Are you going to marry him?"

She could feel her face go red and turned away.

"Mother?"

"I'm not sure," she answered. "What do you think? You know that I will always love your father, but that does not mean he is here." She looked down and saw his frown. She stopped in her tracks and knelt down to face him. "What is it?" 

"I like Dr. Bertrand. I think he knows a lot of things and he makes you happy and I think he likes me. I know it's different because my father isn't dead, but Isabel says that when Aunt Bradley remarried, and had her own children with Uncle Bradley, it was _different_. Like ... she forgot about them."

"Did George say anything like that?"

"I haven't asked him, but he seems lonely. His brother is a baby!"

She had to choose her words carefully now. "Joseph, you are my son. My wonderful son, my reason for living. That would never change. Even if I were to have children with Dr. Bertrand, I could not forget about you, even for a second."

"But Aunt – "

"Your aunt is a different person than I am," she said. "You realize that, don't you?"

"Of course."

"I cannot in good conscience make you think ill of your aunt," she said. "So let's say we have our different ideas about marriage and leave it there. Mr. Wickham died and left her penniless and with two young children. Had she had no family, her situation would have been desperate. She _had_ to remarry if she was to ever leave Longbourn. But you – you are different. I have no obligation to find someone to take care of you and me. I only consider Dr. Bertrand because he might be a good man to be a father to you. You see how that is different?"

He mulled over it, and then nodded. "But you promise you will always love me, even if you have children and they're really special?"

"_All_ children are special. And I do promise." She kissed his cheek. "To my last days, you will be my first concern. I love you." She hugged him. "I love you more than you can imagine." She wiped her tears away before releasing him. She loved her son, but was not given to verbal displays of emotion to that accordance. "And it will always be that way."

He did seem somewhat convinced. "Okay. You can go marry him now."

"Darling, I have to wait for _him_ to ask _me_."

"Why is that?"

She stood up and they resumed their walk back to the house. "Because that's the way we do things."

"Well, if he doesn't ask then I'll tell him to!"

"You will not!" she said with mock agitation. "Joseph Bennet, you will do no such thing!"

"Okay," he said, but he mumbled, "but I will if I _have_ to."

* * *

Joseph did not have to. Andrew Bertrand came on time for services on Sunday, and then began a walk to see the changing leaves at Oakham Mount with Mary. It was very hard to argue that a woman with a child needed a chaperone to keep her virtue intact.

"I thought you were Catholic," she said. "What do you think of our services?"

"The last time I went to real Mass was for my first Communion," he said. "The only heretical thing about me is that I don't view a temporary lapse in service attendance or even going to a different service to coincide with the man I decide to be. The latter is more important."

"But you wouldn't mind ..."

"No, I wouldn't mind. Though, people do get sick on Sundays as often as any other."

"So when is your day of rest?"

"When I manage it," he said. "Like now." He stopped in his tracks. "Are you decided?"

"Decided?"

"I apologize, Miss Bennet. You are at times very easy to read. Until today I could not be sure if you had formed your opinion of me or not, but now, I'm fairly sure you have."

She said nothing.

"Mary Bennet, will you marry me?"

She looked up into his eyes, hers already in tears, but had been disguised by her bonnet. "Yes."

They kissed with the leaves blowing around them; one of the first times they had really touched each other. It was soft and gentle, but not brief. "What would you have done?" Mary said at the end of it.

"What?"

"If I had not come to my decision of your character."

"I would have asked anyway," he said with a smile. "I could hardly have waited any longer."

* * *

"Well, my goodness," Mr. Bennet said, not rising from his chair as Dr. Bertrand entered. "At least take off your hat first. Manners, Doctor."

Dr. Bertrand blushed and removed his hat and gloves.

"Technically, you do not need my consent," he said. "She is of age. But as her inheritance is somewhat conditional, you might want to ask for it."

"I am not after her inheritance," he said, "but I would like your consent to marry Miss Bennet."

"The last one," he said somberly. "The last Miss Bennet there is, and shall ever be in my lifetime." He shook his head. "But of course, you have my consent." They shook on it. "There is the matter of your profession as a royal physician."

Dr. Bertrand had prepared for this. "Dr. Maddox and I have already discussed it. Since it is Mary's intention to live in Longbourn until your, uhm –,"

"– long-predicted death, yes. Go on."

"Yes. Well, of course I do not propose otherwise, though I may be in Town for a few days every now and again. Or we may just hire someone new to add to the staff. Either way, it will be worked out to everyone's satisfaction."

"Except perhaps the Prince's, with his doctors always abandoning him," Mr. Bennet said. "But after all, who cares about him? My chief concern is my daughter and grandson and _your_ concern is now my daughter and grandson. The inheritance, however, is still conditional. You will receive seventy-five thousand pounds with the marriage, and the other half when I die."

Dr. Bertrand sat there dumb-faced.

"Joseph's father was quite generous in the settlement for ruining my daughter's virtue and reputation," he said. "I confess that Longbourn was a shack compared to what it is now, and I was a man who was nearing debt, but we have been living happily off the interest from the account – that and only one daughter to support. Two, when Lydia was still mourning Mr. Wickham, but she was hardly doing _that_." He paused, and studied Bertrand's expression. "You really had no idea. No suspicions whatsoever."

"I knew about the trust for Joseph."

"Yes. And he gave that before any child was born. Mr. Ferretti – that is his name, though we never utter it here – was very penitent. Perhaps because he was celibate in the first place. Yes, Mary was walking around with quite possibly the largest dowry in England, but we never made it public. If she had wanted to, we would have. You've struck gold, Dr. Bertrand."

"With all due respect, Mr. Bennet, that is not the real gold I really struck today," he said. "And my name is Andrew."

* * *

While the engagement of Dr. Bertrand and Mary Bennet was no great surprise to the Derbyshire crowd, it was an excitement nonetheless, especially in Elizabeth's dull days with Darcy gone. Well, they were hardly _dull_ with one son and three daughters, but they seemed a bit emptier nonetheless.

"Where will we spend Christmas?" Jane asked as she sat with her sister on the terrace of Kirkland, discussing the news. "The wedding is close enough that we must just stay in Hertfordshire."

"If Hertfordshire can hold us. Or they do not have a Town wedding," Elizabeth said. "She writes that they have not decided. His parents may demand it. Or the very opposite, when they see the English commoners they're marrying their son into." She was interrupted by Monkey jumping up on the serving table and grabbing a scone in his mouth. "Monkey!"

"What's this about English commoners?" Bingley said, as Monkey's arrival could only mean he was not far behind.

"Dr. Bertrand's parents are French nobility. Their name isn't even Bertrand. They changed it while hiding during the Revolution. So they must not think much of us, whatever our fortune," Elizabeth said.

"Is that right?" Jane said, reaching for her husband's arm as he stood by her side and Monkey climbed back up onto his shoulder, taking the scone with him. "Would they consider us commoners?"

"To be noble you must have more ball gowns than you could ever wear and be deep in very fashionable debt, and since you are neither, my dear, I suppose we do not fit the bill and are unsuitable company for Mr. and Mrs. Bertrand," he said. "What's this about the wedding? Finally?"

"I think the only one still in a state of indecision was Mary," Elizabeth said. "The rest of us were soundly aligned long ago. What a family she had to contend with."

"He is a sweet man," Jane said. "And he helped saved Grégoire's life."

"Speaking of," Bingley said. "Any idea when they'll be back from – where did they go, Scotland?"

"The Isle of Man."

"The Isle of Man?" But he just shrugged. Darcy had many holdings in many places and didn't discuss them. "So – any news?"

"The last I heard, they were staying a few days, and that post has just arrived. If they've written that they've left, it has not yet reached me, sadly," Elizabeth said.

"Well, I suppose we'll hear soon. Mrs. Darcy." He bowed with as much dignity as he could with Monkey clinging to his arm, and went back inside. He and Georgie had just return from their visit with the Maddoxes, and he had been restless ever since.

"Your husband has lost his playmate," Elizabeth said, and Jane did her best not to laugh. She was not entirely successful.

* * *

The post being what it was, Elizabeth received a letter that they were leaving the island to come home only a day before they made their reappearance. The Darcy carriage was followed by wagons of boxes, and another wagon carrying a wooden box that could almost be mistaken for a coffin. But as both brothers got out of the carriage, it could hardly be that.

"Papa!" Because her legs were longer, it was Sarah, not Cassandra, who made it to Darcy first. Anne Darcy was now seven and did not run around like an overenthusiastic toddler. Most of the time, that was. She was third, though, before the adults could emerge.

"Lizzy," he said with his second daughter in his arms, and leaned over to kiss his wife on the cheek. "Georgiana. Lord Kincaid."

"Mr. Darcy. Mr. Grégoire," Lord Kincaid said. "I trust the trip was a success."

"Yes," Grégoire said. "We stayed only to reclaim some personal items left on the site before it could be sold."

"Books," Darcy said. "Lots of books." He turned to Mr. Reed, who was quietly joining his side. "Have the last wagon brought up alongside the chapel."

As they entered, Darcy and Grégoire were brought up on the latest news about the engagement, which openly delighted Grégoire. Darcy said it was an extremely prodigious choice. "Where is Geoffrey?"

"He is at Kirkland," Elizabeth explained, and they sent someone to summon him. As they left to refresh themselves from a long journey, Darcy made a strange request – that Elizabeth, Georgiana, and Geoffrey join them in the chapel at two. They shrugged and said yes, and he left to get cleaned up.

An hour later the specified people gathered in the tiny chapel. Elizabeth realized that everyone but her was a Darcy by blood, and Lord Kincaid had been excluded.

"Geoffrey," Darcy said very gravely, "we decided that you're old enough to be part of this, but you're not to say a word of this to anyone without our permission." He cleared his throat. "Even Miss Bingley. Understood?"

Geoffrey nodded.

Darcy sighed, and only continued with a look of encouragement from his brother. "Our father – Geoffrey Darcy – had an older brother. We had an uncle. His name was Gregory."

"Why have I never heard of him?" Georgiana asked. "When did he die?"

"You were two," he said, "and by then, any traces of him had already been erased from Pemberley's records. The only reason I knew of him at all was I met him twice, when I was a little boy and again when I was fifteen, just before he died on the Isle of Man." He continued before they could question him further, "He was mad. His death was faked when he was of age and he was removed from the records so it wouldn't ... hurt our father's marriage prospects. By your birth, Georgiana, the only ones who knew of him were our father, our mother, and me. The house where he lived remained on the books until recently, when someone put an offer on it. And seeing how Father obviously named Grégoire after his brother, whom he did love very much, I decided to ... take him there."

"He left a journal," Grégoire said as the audience sat quietly, attempting to absorb this terrible information. "When he was a child, he was raised to be master of Pemberley, but when he started showing signs of illness, a doctor was brought to him and probably drove him mad just with his treatments. When he turned seventeen, he asked to be disinherited. Father would inherit, and Uncle Gregory would disappear. All of his portraits were burned. The only ones we have are some tiny ones we found on the isle."

Georgiana was the first person to speak. "Darcy – you met him! While I was alive! Why didn't you tell me when I came of age?"

"Father told me never to speak of him, and I listened," he said quietly. "I would never have spoken of him again until this sale had come up. It was the way they both wanted it. Georgiana, I'm sorry. I truly am."

Elizabeth raised her objection, "Why did you not tell us when – "

"I did tell Dr. Maddox," he interrupted. "I told him in Austria, when I lost my senses. I made him swear never to speak of it to anyone. Apparently he kept that promise well."

They fell into an uncomfortable silence, each with their own thoughts. Elizabeth looked to her husband, but he just looked tired, and not from traveling.

"We decided – if everyone here agrees – that he should be written back into the family," Grégoire said. "Or, at the very least, reburied here at Pemberley. Along with all of his books and his notes and his personal effects, we brought _him_."

"Did he want that?"

"We'll never know," Darcy answered. "He never said, and there's no one alive who can answer that question. Geoffrey, you are not to tell your sisters what happened to Uncle Gregory and why he lived far away. Your mother and I will tell them when they're old enough. And Georgiana, you should tell you husband."

She nodded numbly. It was just too much information.

"I'll tell George," he added. "Just him. He deserves to know the whole of it." He didn't need to say why. Those who knew understood perfectly.

They shuffled out in silence, each with their own thoughts. It was time for Grégoire's prayer. So their last wagon had been carrying a casket after all, even if it was only bones.

The next day, they had the workers pull the edge of one side of the fence around the Pemberley graveyard back far enough to dig one grave. The tombstone would come in later, but Grégoire put up a wooden cross with his uncle's name on it in the meantime.

"Why can't he be buried alongside Father?" Georgiana whispered to Darcy.

"Because he can't be buried on consecrated ground," he said. "He was a suicide."

She leaned into him, and he hugged his little sister as local vicar said prayers over the barely-covered grave. Gregory Darcy, lost for so many years, was finally buried in his home soil, beside generations that came before him and leaving space for generations that would come after him.

...Next Chapter - The Last Bennet


	25. The Last Bennet

Manner of Devotion

by DJ Clawson

"_Everybody likes to go their own way--to choose their own time and manner of devotion."_

_Jane Austen, Mansfield Park_

Author's Note: My policy: Update twice a week or when a chapter reaches 5-10 comments, whichever comes first.

* * *

Chapter 25 – The Last Bennet 

On December 15th 1817, Dr. Andrew Bertrand and Mary Bennet were joined in marriage in the same church where her four sisters had all been married to their _current_ husbands. As Mr. Bennet gave away his last daughter, there was nary a dry female eye in the house. Normally children were not invited to the ceremony, but an exception was made for Joseph, who looked nervous until his mother smiled at him as she walked down the aisle.

Dr. Bertrand's parents did attend, and made a point of only speaking French at the brunch. To their horror, almost all of the people present spoke at least some French, and understood them perfectly. The newly-married couple was too happy to be distracted and no major social disasters occurred before they left for a week in Town, leaving Joseph behind (with many kisses) with his family.

Christmas, it had been decided, would be at Longbourn this year. This year there was no one missing, no one abroad, no one ill (aside from Mrs. Bennet, but they were all adjusted to that reality), no one dying, and no one at the end of their pregnancy. For that, everyone was grateful. All five former Bennet sisters under one roof with their children and husbands was quite enough. Lord and Lady Kincaid had returned to Scotland, taking Grégoire with them for a time. The two Maddox couples and the Hursts were at Brian's estate.

Some of the children were not happy with this news. They loved their crazy uncle and his crazy wife and his crazy guest. "Christmas comes every year," Bingley reminded his children. "If you had everything you want one year then the others wouldn't be special."

The Bertrands returned in time to complete the party. Charles and Eliza Bingley turned eleven, and Charles Bingley the Third seemed surprised that he did not wake up taller that very morning. He was obviously jealous of Geoffrey, who was now actually starting to look what they deemed "adult-sized." Georgie gave him an occasional cold look, as while she had too, she had always been taller and now it was no longer so, and probably would never be again. She did not, however, verbalize her opinion; he understood it perfectly well without a word. And George, of course, was only a year or so away from officially being welcomed into the parlor, and an additional year from being a man of great wealth. All he had to do was hold any of his cousins' foreheads at arm's length and they would be unable to touch him, to the amusement of everyone but the person trying to do it.

"George, stop showing off!" his sister said, and he just granted her one of his rare smiles, which was a Christmas gift unto itself.

So great was the confusion with so many children and so many nurses that the older ones managed to rid themselves of authority while their parents dined and the younger ones wailed. They gathered in the library, mainly because it was available and no one would likely come looking for them there, and feasted on all of the Christmas pudding that Charles and Geoffrey, in a concentrated effort, had managed to sneak from the kitchen.

"Monkey, no! Not for you!" Eliza Bingley screamed as he leapt into the pudding."

"Aw, now we can't eat it," Geoffrey said. "I'm not eating monkey pudding!"

Monkey, from his position an inch deep in the pudding, just howled at him.

"You have to be nice to him," Charles said, "or he'll –" and that was when Monkey, half-covered in chocolate pudding, leapt right onto his arm, ran up his shoulder, and made a nest of his blond hair. A muddy, chocolate nest. "– make a mess."

"I'll get him off," Georgiana offered.

"It'll make it worse," Charles said. "Might as well let him sit there until I find somewhere to dunk him. Monkey! Sit!" And Monkey laid down on his head, which took some grappling. "Mrs. Murrey is going to be so mad at me."

"Who's Mrs. Murrey?" George asked.

"Our governess," Eliza said. "And she won't be as mad at you as she would at us."

"I didn't know you had a governess."

"It's for Georgiana," Eliza said, to which Georgiana Bingley gave her one killer sneer. "_And_ for me. And for Charles because his penmanship is so bad even his tutor can't get him to correct it."

"Hey!"

"Shut-up. You know it's true."

"I _am_ trying!"

Isabel said to Geoffrey, "Do you have a governess?"

"I have tutors. When Anne turns ten my parents said they'll hire one. They've been putting it off."

"Because governesses are royal pains in the – "

"Georgie!"

Georgiana just frowned and slumped into the armchair.

"Georgie doesn't much care for Mrs. Murrey," Eliza announced.

"The feeling is mutual," her older sister said with a grumble.

"Well, if you're just going to complain all night, I'm going to enjoy myself," George said and pulled back what was apparently a false set of books to reveal a bottle of port and several small glasses.

"George!"

"How did you even know this was here?" Geoffrey said, transfixed.

"I used to live here, remember?" he said as he poured himself a glass. "Why are you all looking at me? I'm not three and ten for nothing."

"I want some!" Charles said, jumping up at his feet.

"Absolutely not. Would be terribly irresponsible of me," George said, towering over his cousin.

"He can have a sip and see how foul it tastes," Georgiana said to their surprise. She was normally protective of her younger siblings.

She was correct in her assumption, however, as George let Charles take a tiny sip of port, which he spat out. "This is terrible!"

"When you have an adult tongue you won't think so," George said.

"Adult! You're just lording your year over us because your mother got a head start," Georgiana said. "Give me a glass."

"A glass!"

"C'mon! 'snot like I've never had whiskey before."

He held up the bottle. "This is _port_. You can tell by the color, genius."

"Well, how should I know?"

"You just said you were a scholar of the spiritual arts!"

"Spiritual arts? What is this nonsense? One glass and you're cup-shot!"

"_How would you even know?_" George spat back. Geoffrey took the bottle out of his hands. "No, I really want to know!"

"G-d, you are a lush," Geoffrey said, pouring himself a half shot-glass of port and downing it with a frown of distaste. "We got all pogy on her last birthday, when everyone else had gone to sleep and her father was in India. She said she was lonely."

"I was!" Georgie said.

"Where was I?" Charles asked, leaning for the bottle, but Geoffrey put it way on the top shelf, far out of his reach. Monkey finally leapt off his head and went right up there with the closed bottle.

"Asleep in your cradle," Georgiana said.

"I do not have a cradle! Edmund has a cradle."

"Well, the point is, you were asleep. And so was Mama. And the Darcys were over, remember? To make it seem like Papa wasn't gone. But then _they_ went to sleep and we got drunk."

"_You_ did," Geoffrey said. "I could still – pronounce things. And stand."

"Stand!"

"I had to carry you back to your room," he said, and Georgiana colored. "Sorry. I wasn't supposed to tell, was I?"

She just turned away from him and crossed her arms. It served well enough as an answer.

"I – I think it's cute," George said, smiling. Unlike Geoffrey, he had had a full glass on an empty stomach.

"What do you mean, cute?" Geoffrey replied, confused.

"You'll understand – when you're _older_," George said, slapping him on the shoulder.

"You drunk," Georgiana said. "You're going to turn into your father."

It was not the right thing to say in front of or in hearing range of George Wickham. It was not the right thing to say if he was in the same county. Everyone knew that, except the smallest children. Geoffrey could only move fast enough to barely keep George from getting his hands around Georgiana's throat. "Don't you_ ever say that!_"

"George –" Isabella pleaded softly.

"Let me go!" he shouted, in a louder voice than they had ever heard from him. He was taller than Geoffrey, but he lived in Town and his main preoccupation was reading. Geoffrey fenced, rode, and shot, and he had had his growth spurt now, too, so he was fairly successful at knocking him against the bookshelf and holding him there. "She has to take it back! Let me go!"

"I will not let you touch her," Geoffrey said calmly and quietly as he held him back. Books were coming down off the case now.

"Geoffrey!" Georgiana said.

"My father may have been a drunk," George said, "but _your_ father is a murderer!"

There was no one who could move quickly enough to stop Geoffrey Darcy from dropping his hold on his cousin and instead punching him in the stomach. George doubled over and dropped to his knees, to be narrowly caught by his sister.

No one said a word. There was just Geoffrey's heavy breathing, the girls frightened in their seats, and George coughing up the alcohol.

"Geoffrey Darcy!" Georgiana said. "What did you do?"

He rushed to explain himself, "He – he called my dad a murderer; what was I _supposed_ to do?"

"Your dad _is_ a murderer!" she said, rising to George's defense. Perhaps out of a bit of guilt. "And my dad is a wimp. And George's dad was a drunk and a gambler and now he's dead. So what? It doesn't matter to us." She turned to George, who could only get his head up with the help of his sister, and curtseyed. "Mr. Wickham, I'm sorry I called Uncle Wickham a drunk."

"You shouldn't speak ill of the dead," Charles said.

"_Or_ the living, if they're relatives," she said, and turned to Geoffrey. "You've got all your tutors telling you things. What's the Master of Pemberley supposed to do when he punches his cousin?"

"I – he's supposed to apologize, I guess," he said, trembling. Georgiana's disapproving stare could do that to him. "George, I'm sorry. I got upset."

George just nodded. He had stopped coughing up things and Geoffrey picked him up and helped him into an armchair. "I know," George said quietly. "I – got upset, too."

"I've never seen him attack anyone," Isabel said. "What were you thinking?"

He was too rattled to answer anything but the honest truth, "I don't want to turn into my father."

"For G-d's sake, you're nothing like your father and we all know it, even if we don't remember him that well," Georgiana said.

"Or at all," Charles said.

Monkey squawked, and leapt from the shelf. Actually it was not so much a leap as a drop; only Georgiana's reflexes saved him as she caught him. "Monkey! You're drunk!"

They looked up, and indeed, the bottle cork had been removed, and the port spilled out onto the shelf.

George was the first to start laughing. It was not long before they all joined in. Monkey was passed to Eliza, who held him like a doll. "Monkey?" But Monkey just squealed and pawed for a strand of her hair, and failed to do so. "Monkey! Oh, what if he has a headache in the morning? We don't have any monkey medicine!"

They laughed until their sides hurt, because it felt good, even with their sides actually hurting. Then the night really set in, with the fire going low, and Georgiana told her younger siblings to go to bed. "I am sorry," she told George, kissing him on the cheek before carrying off a sleeping monkey in her arms.

"I'll be fine," George told his sister, and she hurried off to bed. He stayed in his armchair for a bit while Geoffrey played with the fire, bringing it back up a bit.

"I am sorry," he said, wringing his hands together. "Very sorry."

"I know."

"I know my dad is a murderer. He feels bad about it, but he is."

"I know. I mean, I know he feels bad." George's head rolled to one side. He was still clutching his stomach as Geoffrey pulled up a chair across from him. "And I know my father – had it coming. My mother won't stop talking about it."

Geoffrey couldn't imagine what it would be like to have a mother like that. His mother never said _anything_ that didn't seem to be funny or clever or comforting. "You're not like him. You're like Father. Quiet. Respectable. Intelligent. No head for alcohol."

George smiled. "True, I suppose. But that's just because I'm not – I don't have friends. I'm not _sociable_."

"Like Uncle Gregory?"

"You mean Uncle Grégoire? You can't pronounce his own name?"

"No, I mean – Oh, G-d. He said he was going to tell you."

"Who?"

"Father," Geoffrey said in a panic. "He said he was going to tell you about Great-Uncle Gregory. But – I guess he hasn't had a chance."

"I did just get here. Who's this Gregory?"

"G-d, no. I shouldn't be talking about this."

"Now you _have to_. You've said it. You can't leave me there."

Geoffrey stood up, collected what was left of the bottle, and poured himself another half glass. "You did not hear this from me."

"Then from whom did I hear it?"

He ignored the comment. "Father came home from this trip and just announced that he had this uncle that nobody knew about. Our grandfather's elder brother. He lived in some kind of island asylum. He was mad, and they covered up his existence so that Grandfather could inherit Pemberley instead and find a better prospect for marriage. You know, so no one knew there was _illness_ in our family." He finished the glass and put it aside. "He left all these journals – Great-Uncle Gregory – and Father and Grégoire found them and read them and decided to bring his bones back to Pemberley. But they couldn't bury him in the graveyard proper because he committed suicide." He swallowed. "What sort of nonsense is that?"

"Which part?" George said, sufficiently intrigued. "The leftover Papist nonsense or the nonsense about worrying about marriage prospects?"

"I don't know," Geoffrey said. "I wasn't supposed to tell you this. Father probably has a proper speech prepared. He wasn't going to tell Isabel. I don't even know why –"

George interrupted him. "No. I know why." He shook his head. "My mother said your father – that they almost put him away after he came home from Austria."

"I don't know. Maybe. They kept me out of it. I just know Father was sick, but he recovered." He said, "Aunt Bradley talks too much."

"I know. But she says interesting things," he replied. "I don't want to fight with you over our fathers. Or our grandfather. Or anyone else."

"I know." It was Geoffrey's turn to say that.

"They were all fools and it's in the past. Can we leave it at that?"

"Yes." Geoffrey offered his hand. "You need help to your room?"

"Do you?"

They shared a laugh, and slowly meandered back to their quarters, both a little tipsy.

And leaving the mess behind them.

* * *

"Charles?" 

"Mmm?"

"What did I say about Monkey in my chambers?"

It took him a moment to recall it. When she said his name, after all, he had been fast asleep, and waking up beside his wife the day after Christmas, he didn't wish to be alarmed by anything. He snaked his arm across her belly. "Why do you ask?"

"Open your eyes, dear."

Reluctantly he complied, and his eyes came to focus on Monkey, sleeping on their pristine white sheets in the space between their legs. He was mostly covered in something brown that looked like mud and his trail to the bed was obvious by the tracks. "Monkey?

No response.

He sat up and picked up his animal, who stirred with a little squeal and then settled into his chest, and he laid back down.

"Charles?"

"What? Oh, come on, he's been so good as of late, we can't – Is that chocolate? It smells like it. And something else, too." He picked off a mushy lump and licked it. "It's Christmas pudding. And ... port, I think.

Jane cracked a smile. "Do we even want to know why our animal is covered in Christmas pudding and spirits?"

"So you admit he's _our_ animal?"

"Only if you will bother to notice he's staining your lovely Indian bedclothes."

He just laid his head back further into the pillow. "I would, but as it seems I will be spending the day interrogating our children as to how this came to be, which is not something I relish, I will enjoy this moment, in bed with my wife and a chocolate-covered, possibly hung-over monkey."

* * *

Many hours later, when it was all sorted out that the children had gotten into the port and the pudding and then let Monkey into both (the latter being hardly the least of their crimes), the children were sent to their respective chambers to sit (on pillows) and think about what they did, and their parents were left to endure the laughter from the parents of children who _had_ behaved. 

"The first time I was drunk with Wickham was when I was but nine," Darcy said. "It is impressive they made it this long."

Eventually the animosity between parents and naughty children receded, and life returned to normal as they awaited the approach of the new year. It was during that period that it snowed at Longbourn, to the delight of the children. As most of the staff was outside making sure they didn't hurt themselves or get sick, Darcy noticed George was alone in the library (where the mess had been thoroughly cleaned and the port moved), staring out the window as his younger cousins played.

"George," he said, "There is something I should tell you."

George did his very best to hide that he knew something of what was coming. Fortunately there was enough new information to intrigue him. Either Geoffrey did not know the half of it, did not understand it, or had not been told the contents of Great-Uncle Gregory's journal. Each possibility could be the real one but he did not speculate. There was too much to think on.

His Uncle Darcy's undertone was obvious; he understood Gregory Darcy's suffering and he knew that George did too, on a level that the others didn't. It was just too painful to actually say.

"Our conclusion," Darcy said, "was that what could have only been a minor social handicap was exacerbated by the incompetent doctoring. Anyone would be driven mad by the treatments he describes. He even wrote that he begged your grandfather to stop the treatments, and he agreed." This was not an easy subject for either of them. Even Darcy was looking away, out the window or towards the fireplace. "For all of my father's faults, which are also mentioned copiously in the journals, I believe he did learn from watching his brother suffer, and could not bear to submit me to the same thing. Which is why I am here today, a family man with a wonderful marriage, a healthy estate, and a horde of screaming children. And not on some island."

"I don't want this burden," George said in despair.

"I know." Darcy put a hand on his nephew's shoulder. "But you have something Gregory did not have – you are not alone. And never will be. That, I promise you."

Fitzwilliam Darcy was not known to make promises lightly. That knowledge alone made it so much easier to bear.

... Next Chapter - A Sight for Sore Eyes


	26. A Sight for Sore Eyes

Manner of Devotion

by DJ Clawson

"_Everybody likes to go their own way--to choose their own time and manner of devotion."_

_Jane Austen, Mansfield Park_

Author's Note: My policy: Update twice a week or when a chapter reaches 5-10 comments, whichever comes first.

* * *

Chapter 26 - A Sight for Sore Eyes 

Grégoire, who had never been so far north, passed the holidays with the Kincaids at their estate in ----shire. Not only could he shower attention on his youngest nephew, but he also found William Kincaid to be a scholar in his two favorite subjects, religion and history. William Kincaid was a staunch Presbyterian, but only in the way that debates with Grégoire amused him. One afternoon in early January they began with predestination, which the Calvinist Kincaid took to the extent that people were selected for heaven before they were even born and there was nothing anyone could do to change their fate.

"Absurd. Then what need is there for redemption at all, if there is no possible salvation?" Grégoire said.

"Do you only seek to correct your ways because you are concerned about getting into heaven, or about being a good person here on earth?"

"This is true. If we all believed John Calvin's message so strictly, there would be no need to have laws at all, and society itself would collapse."

"Who is to say we are not among the elect?" Kincaid countered.

"There are only 144,000 of them, correct?" Grégoire said. "That was what he believed, from the Book of Revelations. That would be only a small percentage of the people who have ever lived. And we must immediately say that all the saints must be among the Elect, and there are hundreds, maybe thousands of them."

"John Knox was not so specific about the actual numbers," Kincaid said, referring to the founder of the Presbyterian Kirk in Scotland. "Assume for a moment that they may be higher."

"But Calvin wrote that it would be obvious from their actions who were among the Elect, meant for heaven, from their actions," Grégoire said. "I do not presume myself to be not a sinner. What hope is there for me?"

"'It is blasphemy to say that Christ Jesus abides in the hearts of such as in whom there is no spirit of sanctification,'" Kincaid said triumphantly.

"This is from the Scottish Confession?"

"Yes, but originally from Romans."

Grégoire nodded. "I thought I recognized it. So not only are we most likely damned, but also it is blasphemous to even _say_ we are not. And if we're discussing it now, we're performing blasphemy, so it is safe to assume we are damned by this system of logic. In fact, the only correct way to assure that we are _not damned_ is to say that we _are,_ so we are not in error by saying the reverse."

Kincaid frowned, and gestured for Grégoire to pass him the copy of Knox's _Scottish Confession of Faith_. He flipped through the chapter open, and the others with a frown. "You still won't deny that there are some people who are damned and some who are not? Otherwise, why should heaven and hell exist together?"

"Of course."

"Then we must assume that the L-rd knows who is saved and who is damned before they are even born, because he is omnipotent. So our fates are decided."

"Not _decided_," Grégoire said. "Just _known_. I still prefer to think that my actions in this life determine my fate in the next life. Otherwise we're wasting our time, and might as well be off fishing or something."

"The lake is frozen."

"Then skating, I don't know!"

"So we have reached a tie," Kincaid said as his wife entered, carrying their son. "Dearest, you must settle this debate for us. We need a deciding vote."

"There is no tie! You just refuse to give in to logic!"

Georgiana cast an amused glance at her brother, and then said, "And what are we debating?"

"If we have any chance at all of salvation by being good people or if we should all just go skating instead," Kincaid said. "Or ice-fishing. Yes. I suppose we could do that."

"Can't we do both?" she said. Go skating and still go to heaven?"

"I like her opinion," Grégoire said.

"I agree," Kincaid said. "Georgiana, you have won the day."

"Then be a dear and take our son off my hands for a few minutes!"

"Let me," Grégoire offered, and took the infant into his arms. Robert was now six months, and could stand with help on Grégoire's knees. "Look at you. Are you bothering your mother?" Robert just giggled as Grégoire tickled his stomach as Georgiana took a seat at their long table and the tea immediately offered to her.

"You're so talented with children," William said. "I suppose your family has already mentioned the idea of having some of your own."

"Quite possibly nearly every day," Grégoire said. "I ... well, I never was in a position to think of such things before. Besides, there are many orphans who need a parent."

William shook his head. "You're so intent to bypass the fun part? There's a worthwhile debate with a logical conclusion."

Grégoire just blushed, and Georgiana put a hand over her husband's own. "Leave my poor brother alone. He gets enough of this from Darcy." She turned to her brother. "Do you have any more mundane ideas for what you might like to do in the spring?"

"Yes," he said. "Go to Ireland."

"Ireland?"

"I have traveled most extensively, but never on my own and without a Rule to guide me. And I have never been to Ireland. Saint Bede wrote extensively about his travels and their merits."

"Saint Bede?"

"Yes, the father of English history. Excuse me, the father of the history of those invading Saxon bastards."

"Grégoire!" Georgiana cried, but her reaction was muted by the sounds of her husband's laughter.

"So," William Kincaid said, "what is it about St. Bede and Ireland?"

Grégoire balanced his nephew on one knee. "He never visited the place, but he knew of it, and the church there that had yet to be fully Latinized. There are many holy sites in Ireland."

"You want to make a pilgrimage, then?"

"I doubt that any of the sites are still there except the actual ground itself," Grégoire said, "but yes, perhaps I do."

* * *

The Darcys and the Bingleys returned before the hard snows set in, but when they did, there was no traffic of any kind, only the occasional postman with a stack of late letters. Grégoire had returned in time as well, and for months they were all prisoners together within the walls of Pemberley, emerging only occasionally to go to Kirkland or Lambton, but no further. 

In February, an alarming letter came in the post. Or, it would have been, had it been phrased in a less nonchalant manner, but as the authoress was Caroline Maddox, it could only be expected. It was sent to Charles and Jane, with permission to give the news to the Darcys.

_Dear Sister, _

_Forgive the delay in this information, but we decided not to tell anyone until the procedure was all over, so as to not leave you in unnecessary suspense. _

_Two weeks ago Dr. Maddox consulted his physician about the loss of some vision in his left eye, which was apparently caused by a cataract. Fortunately the doctor whose specialty is this particular surgery was in Town to treat His Majesty, and did the procedure here instead of making Dr. Maddox go up to Cambridge for it. It was a very brief procedure, but we will not know the results for a few weeks, and Frederick and Emily are taking great delight in calling their father a pirate until that day comes. _

_If the roads clear and you feel compelled to visit, do not feel so obligated, because Dr. Maddox is intolerably cranky since he refuses to use pain medicine except the day of the procedure. He is staring at me this very second, and in a moment he may inquire what I'm writing about him. _

_The chances of infection are very low, but please kept him in your prayers. Mr. Maddox and Her Highness (and unfortunately, Mr. Mugen) are keeping us company to help pass the time. _

_ Caroline Maddox _

They replied that of course, they would keep him in their hearts and minds and await further news. Many people went blind in their old age, but Dr. Maddox was not old, and said on any number of occasions that he was determined to see his daughter go out, and that was that.

* * *

"A sorry lot we are," Brian said to his brother, who was attempting to read the paper. "I'm a cripple and you're missing bits and pieces. We have opium and someone's keeping it locked up like he was the chief guard of the Tower of London – " 

"If you have any lingering pains, please tell me," his brother said calmly.

"I _did_."

"Well, this time, don't be so obviously lying."

Brian laughed. Dr. Maddox did not, whether he found it amusing or not. "Is there anything to do around here that does not involve reading?"

"At your house? Hardly. Though I could give you some suggestions, but you would find them all rather improper," Brian said as he poured Daniel another glass of whiskey. "Why don't you visit your infamous patient?"

"He's just been lying in bed, crying since his daughter died," Dr. Maddox said. "The illness is not physical. In addition, he would laugh at me." He did look sort of ridiculous with a cloth patch over his eye and a bandage tied around his head to keep it in place.

"You'd be comforting a mourner."

"I failed to do so when I was in perfect health. I see no reason why I should do it now."

"Are we just going to argue all day?"

"We're hardly _arguing_."

"You're contradicting everything I say."

"I always do that. It is your imagination."

"There you go again." He stood up and opened the door, just in time to catch Mrs. Maddox about to enter. "Mrs. Maddox."

"Mr. Maddox. What are you up to?"

"Well, I tried to get him drunk, but he hasn't had the second glass yet. Maybe I'll shut the door and you'll be more persuasive."

"Bugger off," the doctor said. He did, however, take another sip. As Brian left, Caroline kissed her husband on the part of his head that wasn't bandaged and sat down next to him. "It is ten in the morning."

"And this is Town. Plenty of people are cup-shot at ten in the morning."

"Are you going to argue with me, too?"

She put her hand on his forehead. "No fever. What else am I supposed to ask you?"

"Is there any pus leaking from the bandage?"

"That's _disgusting_."

"I know. And there isn't, for your record." He put his hand over hers. "I feel completely fine in every respect that you should be concerned about."

"Not every respect that I am concerned about."

"You know what I mean."

She sneered. "Finish your whiskey. Perhaps you should get drunk, and you might be pleasant to be around."

He finished the glass and pulled her into him. Even with all of their layers of clothing from the winter weather, she could still feel his heart beating as he whispered, "I'm sorry."

"I know," she replied, her voice much softer. "You're just suffering."

"I'm worried," he said. "This will be the second time on this eye. And I'm older now. Maybe I won't be so lucky."

"You have another eye."

"It's not particularly good."

"You _are_ being argumentative," she said, but without any dismissal in her tone. "You promised you would make it to Emily's presentation before court and I'm not sending my only daughter out when she's fifteen like some country girl."

"I wanted to make it to her wedding, but I like making reasonable goals," he said. "And I also am rather fond of watching my _other_ children grow up."

She smiled. "But you won't see me wrinkle up into a knobby old woman with horribly dyed hair."

"I will not stand for that," he said. "I love the smell of your hair. If you dare dye it, even tomorrow, I will not speak to you for a week."

"You would not manage a week."

"I would try."

She managed to laugh. Daniel was silent, but she sensed some of the tension was gone from him. Every day his pain decreased a little and his anxiety about the results increased some more. It was a horrible balance.

"The last time I did this," he said, "I didn't have a wife _or_ a brother to comfort me. I barely had heat in my apartment. Despite my current temperament, I _much_ prefer my conditions this time around."

* * *

One crabby week later, and after many conspiracies to drug Dr. Maddox's tea (all of which he discovered before they could come to fruition), it was time to visit Dr. Hunt at the Royal Society office. Daniel Maddox was very methodical that morning in his usual preparations. Dr. Hunt, like most doctors, did not believe in washing around the eye, but he did, as close as he could get. By the end of it, his hands were shaking. 

"You will be fine," his wife said. They had not removed the bandage, so he had no idea if the eye worked.

"And if it's not?"

"Your eye? It's not as if you don't have another one."

He smiled and kissed her. "I will try to remember that."

It was Brian who took him to the doctor. It was as if he was four and ten again and Brian was his guardian. He was there to stand by him (but this time, not hold his hand) when the doctor removed the patch and inspected his eye – all of which, he could see.

"You sir may hold a record," Dr. Hunt said to his patient, "for most successful cataract removals. Two on each eye?"

"Three on the right, two on the left," Dr. Maddox said, still laughing with joy as he put his glasses back on and the world came into focus again. There was a quick exam of his distance vision with cards, and he was declared, aside from his severe myopia, to be in good visual health.

But his real joy and relief came when he arrived home and his children came running down the stairs. This time it was little Danny who outpaced the other two in his excitement. "Father!" He was small enough to still be picked up.

"Look at you," he said.

"A sight for sore eyes," Brian said.

The servants, who held their master in some esteem, were all relieved and quickly set him down with something to drink for all of his tribulations. He toasted with his brother, wife, and sister-in-law.

"You know," he said to his sons, "one of the reasons I became interested in medicine was because I went to so many doctors when I was a child. Do either of you want to be doctors?"

"I want to be a samurai!" Danny said, to which Brian laughed, earning himself a cold glare from everyone else in the room.

"I want to be a fencing champion!" Frederick said.

"I think I liked the samurai idea better," Caroline replied. "At least it involves some bizarre honor system."

"At least it involves regular exercise," said Dr. Maddox.

"_At least he didn't say, 'king,'_" whispered Brian, and his brother was in too good of a mood to do anything but laugh.

* * *

Winter eventually became spring, and the snow and ice melted, and once again the roads were cleared for travel. The early spring was a time for a lot of birthdays, the most significant being Georgiana's and Geoffrey's, who both turned three and ten. The following fall, Geoffrey would be attending Eton. Georgie now hovered in the precarious stage where she was no longer a child and not yet a woman, when she had to wear a wide-rimmed hat and not talk to men in the streets or even be introduced. Whether she resented any of this or not, she said nothing. 

George came up to Derbyshire for their birthdays. When asked what he was doing alone, he replied that his mother didn't care where he went and then quickly changed the subject. At the end of Geoffrey Darcy's first day as a someone three and ten, Mr. Darcy and Mr. Wickham stayed up much later than the rest of the household and helped themselves to the good whiskey Geoffrey's father kept in his study, having learned the lesson about port well enough. By sunrise they were still awake and utterly in the cups. Whatever rift caused by the fight at Christmas had been mended. When Master Darcy rose, Mrs. Reynolds quietly informed him that his son had been found passed out cold on the terrace, and would probably sleep through the whole day. The master's reaction to this was uncharacteristically mild. He did speak to Nurse and told her that when Geoffrey was to be woken (preferably by dinner), it should be done very loudly, with some kind of drum if at all possible. Otherwise, he had no comment.

At the end of March, when all of the significant dates had passed, Grégoire Bellamont was seen off. Darcy went with him all the way to the coast, where he would take a boat to Ireland. He had spent months reading literature on the land and the history of its church. On more than one occasion, Elizabeth had to quietly remind her husband, "He is a grown man and he can do as he pleases," as he tried to broker opposition.

This time, Grégoire took something besides his prayer book, his spectacles, and his cloak. He took a bag of money – his own money, from his own account. Some had already been sent to Dublin, where it would sit in an account if he needed access to it. His route was established and he would write if he varied from it, so it would be not so hard to find him. Nonetheless Darcy would only let him go with Dr. Maddox's permission, but unfortunately the doctor would not be in on the conspiracy and said Grégoire was well enough to travel. It had been over eight months since his injuries and though his back was mainly scar tissue, it did not cause him pain or impede his movement.

"When can we expect you back?" Darcy said as they walked the docks to the waiting ship.

"When I find what I'm looking for," he replied.

"And what are you looking for?"

"That, I also must find." He shook hands with Darcy. "Good-bye, brother."

"Write me if you get into trouble. Or if you need anything. Or if you get sick. Or if – "

"I will write."

Darcy nodded, composing himself. "Good-bye. And good luck." He added, nervously, "Go with ... G-d."

Grégoire smiled from the plank. "I will do my best."

... Next Chapter - Saint in a Box


	27. Saint in a Box

Manner of Devotion

by DJ Clawson

"_Everybody likes to go their own way--to choose their own time and manner of devotion."_

_Jane Austen, Mansfield Park_

Author's Note: My policy: Update twice a week or when a chapter reaches 5-10 comments, whichever comes first.

Warning: Accents ahead.

* * *

Chapter 27 – Saint in a Box 

"Sir, are you all right?"

To be perfectly honest, Grégoire was not. The walk from Dublin to Drogheda had worn him out. Usually walking thirty miles over two days would be no trouble for him, but he had not recovered as well from last summer as he presumed. He was only still standing because of his staff. "Yes." His voice said otherwise, and he looked sideways to the priest who had come up from behind him. "Just let me –" Without question, the priest came and helped him to the pew before the shrine. He gave a little cry as his back hit the hard wood. "I will be all right. Thank you."

Now that he was sitting, he was sure he would be. He still could see the gorgeous shrine before him, with the afternoon sun just coming through the stained glass, and all the candles lit around the relic. Behind the glass was the head of Oliver Plunkett, the Catholic protestor who had been martyred by English authorities in 1681. There was talk about making him a saint, but nothing could be done without England's consent, and England would hardly consent. Or, that was what the man at the entrance told him through a thick brogue.

Grégoire crossed himself. He had missed Mass, as it was already late afternoon when he arrived, but he heard one in Dublin the day before and to his great delight. The last Catholic Mass he heard was in July of the previous year.

"Ye al' right?"

This time it came from the man next to him, who had just sat down. This man was no priest, just an ordinary fellow in shabby clothing who had kneeled before the altar first. "To be honest, I'm a little tired."

"Yer nade a draink?"

He nodded.

The man passed him a flask, which apparently contained very watery whiskey, which quenched his thirst somewhat, even though it lit a fire in his throat. "Thank you," he whispered, passing it back to him.

"Wha ye from, fella? yisser accent is fierce quare."

"Lots of places," he said. "France. England. Bavaria. Spain. Pick what you like."

"Been travelin' donkey's years, den?"

He nodded again. "Yes." He felt better now, sitting, and with the whiskey dulling the pain. "Why do you come to this shrine?"

"I suppose a noggin in de box is bloody disturbin', isn't it? but we 'av ter git our relics wha we can git dem."

To think, he had once taken relics for granted. The Irish and English relics had all been destroyed in the Dissolution, and the bones of saints finally buried, often in unmarked graves. "Yes, I suppose that's true." He smiled.

"Hugh McGowan."

He shook the offered hand. "Grégoire Bellamont."

"Grey-wha?"

He laughed. "It's French for Gregory."

"Yer nade a place ter stay, Gregory?"

"Just for a few days, yes." Whatever the rate was, he could pay it. That was not his concern. His concern was that he could barely stand, and Hugh took his arm and put it over his broad shoulders.

Hugh did not live far. The tiny apartment on the outskirts of town was not far from St. Peter's Church. "We're startin' dat hostin' business," Hugh announced to the woman in an apron standing in the doorway. "All we got is a cot an' food. 's that all right, Mr. Greywar Bella – Bellamen – "

"Just Gregory," he said. "And yes, anything is fine."

He was introduced to Mrs. McGowan, first name Nora, before he requested to rest before supper. The night before he had slept on the side of a road with his bag as a pillow, so the fur-covered cot was a vast improvement.

When he woke it was dark outside. A single wax candle was burning on the wooden table. There was no separation between the kitchen and the sitting room where he was housed, only a room in the back that was presumably their bedroom. Mrs. McGowan sat alone at the table, and rose when he joined her. "Al' we 'av is sum stew. I wasn' 'spectin' visitors."

"Anything you have would be lovely, Mrs. McGowan."

He couldn't tell what was in the stew, aside from potatoes, but he didn't care. He was used to either a monastic diet or the fancy ten-course Pemberley dinners, so it was a nice medium. After grace he ate his portion, and then a second. "Thank you."

"Yer English is very – English."

"I learned it from my family," he said, "on my father's side. Before that it was more like yours."

"An' yer ma?"

"French."

"So what're you doin' in backend Ireland, Mr. Gregory?"

He smiled. "I don't know, properly. There are some places I wanted to visit. Pilgrim sites I read about."

"Answers ter yer spiritual questions. most people go elsewhere for dat."

"I've been to Rome," he said. "And I don't have the strength to go to Jerusalem. So, here I am."

"An' yer git a noggin in a box."

"I suppose it's better than an empty box."

They shared a laugh and chatted about the local sites before he paused. "Excuse me. It's time for prayer."

"It's noight, Mr. Gregory."

"I know. Compline," he said, and excused himself to the other side of the room. Mrs. McGowan disappeared to give him privacy as he sat in prayer, rising when he was finished to have more of the local beer.

"'s a monastic thing," she said. "Innit?"

"Yes. I used to be a monk." When she showed no disgust at the idea that he had left whatever religious order he had been in, he continued, "Some habits are hard to break. Nor do I wish to break them. Good night, Mrs. McGowan."

"Gran' noight, Gregory. Sleep well."

Her prediction was accurate. He slept like the dead.

* * *

The next morning, Hugh offered to take him to Mellifont Abbey, Ireland's oldest Cistercian monastery. The ruins were open for tourists, but Hugh's guidance was absolutely necessary to find the place. Beyond that, he could only really guess at what the various ruins were, but the decaying structures were obvious enough that Grégoire was able to recognize most of them. The grey stone of the columns from one row of cloister arches remained intact, standing alone beside stone floor and grass. The only fully-standing building was the chapter house, though the windows were long gone, and there were birds roosting in the inside grooves of the arches. 

"What were yeh?" Hugh said. "I mean, before?"

"Benedictine. But I was a novice as a Cistercian in France. That monastery dissolved. Then the one in Bavaria did. There are some left in Austria, but I went to Spain instead," he said, looking down at the floor of the charter-house and noticing the indentations where the heavy wooden pews had one sat. What happened to the wood after the Dissolution? Was it chopped for firewood, or was it sitting in some aristocrat's house, himself unaware of its holy origins?

They made it back to Drogheda proper for High Mass at St. Peter's church. Hugh, who was out of work until the summer harvest, brought Grégoire back to his house. There Grégoire wrote a brief letter to Darcy, saying he had arrived safely in Drogheda. He did not anticipate a long stay.

The next day they traveled to Monasterboice, an abbey of a different sort, dating before the Norman invasion and containing one of the many unexplained round towers and beautiful Celtic crosses of stone. Carved in relief were the stories of Eve tempting Adam, Cain slaying Abel, Moses striking the rock, the life of Christ – almost the entire bible on the great Muiredach cross. It was Grégoire who was tour guide now, easily able to decipher the pictography.

"What do ya tink dey mean?" Hugh asked, pointing to the round tower.

"I don't know," he said. "I have a relative who traveled to India, where there are thousands of towers like that. I forget what he said they were called, but the Mohammedians prayed five times a day, so five times a day, a man with a loud voice would climb to the top and call them all to prayer."

"Loike, Saracens?"

"Yes. This was in India. Here we have bells to tell us the time, but the principle is the same, I suppose."

"Kinda a heretical ting to be sayin'?"

"If I was a monk, I suppose so," he said with a smile. "Alas, I am not."

* * *

After they returned from High Mass, Grégoire decided he would leave in the morning. He had to begin his path west to see the ancient burial sites of Brú na Bóinne. He spent most of the afternoon resting and enjoyed a final hearty meal with the McGowans. 

When he rose at half past three for Vigils, Nora McGowan was up. She had gone to bed earlier, but she was sitting up now at her kitchen table with a cup of mead.

"Mrs. McGowan," he bowed. Not quite sure what the proper thing to do was, he sat down across from her and she filled a cup for him from the pot. It was not hot or cold, and had the flavor of honey, but otherwise was fairly tasteless.

They sat in silence for a while. She seemed hypnotized by the single burning flame of the candle that lit the room. He sipped his mead.

"Why did yeh leave de church, Mr. Gregory?" It was not an accusation; it was a question.

"I don't know how to answer that question properly," he said. "It was a mixture of the politics of Rome and my own zealous devotion, which nearly killed me. I'm not damned, just forbidden to take holy orders." He added, "I didn't know how to find the balance between physical devotion and preserving my health, and no one would teach me. Instead they cast me out." When she seemed satisfied with the answer, he asked, "Why does your husband go to pray at the shrine every day?"

She did not look at him. She had not been looking at him for the entire conversation. "Our only current bun – de wan sprog dat lived, didn't cum 'um from de war."

"He died at Waterloo?"

"Maybe," she said. "Maybe not. 'e's not on de rolls. 'e just disappeared. Could be alive fer all we know."

"Have you tried going to London? They have more official registries there."

She turned to him. "Do ya tink we can afford ta go ta London?"

"I'm sorry." He paused, and put down his mug. "What was his regiment? Do you know? Do you have all of his information?"

"Aye, why?"

"Because I have relatives in London. I could write them and ask them to look." It had been three years – he was most likely dead, buried in a mass grave in France. But unless his whole regiment was in the grave with him, someone would know. They knew that – they had to know that. "It's no trouble," he said to her start of a response. "Just give me all his information and I will write it down and send it to my brother."

"We wouldn't want ta beholden – "

"It's no trouble, I assure you," he said, and could not be persuaded otherwise. He did not excite her hopes of finding their son alive, or at all, but if there was information to be found, it would be in London.

When they saw him off the next morning with a few day's worth of food packed in his satchel, it was in tears, not from how well he paid his bill, but from his promise and the letter he sent out by courier that very morning. "Bejasus bless yeh, Mr. Gregory."

"I hope He sees fit to do so," he said.

* * *

Following the river Boyne, Grégoire slowly made his way to Brú na Bóinne, also known as Quarters of the Boyne in proper English. It had no Christian significance, but he was right here, and he decided that there was G-d's glory in any beautiful sight before his eyes. 

There was no guide, and there was no one who knew properly how to guide him. This history was lost. He wandered the stone tombs, with their intricate carvings, as the early Irish were so proud of doing. They loved spirals and knots.

He once had a theological discussion with the abbot in Bavaria. "What about all the souls that came before Christ? Was it only the Israelites who were saved, or all people?"

"Our L-rd G-d spoke to other people before He sent His son to earth. Even before Abraham, he gave Noah laws. If people followed them, they went to heaven."

"What if they never heard of Noah? Did G-d speak to other people we don't know about?"

The abbot paused and then answered, "Everyone knew Noah. He was the only one to survive the flood!"

"Of course! Thank you, Father!"

Grégoire smiled at the memory as he sat on the grass before a burial mound. It had all been so simple, the answers all waiting for him. _I should have asked about the people who came before the flood!_ He thought, and slapped himself in amusement.

* * *

He wandered south, chasing ruin after ruin of worlds that had passed on. There was Boyle Abbey, the Monastery of Clonmacnoise, and finally he went east again to see the Jerpoint Abbey, another Ciscertian Abbey founded after the Norman invasion. The structure still stood in stone, without windows and with a new floor of grass. He was hardly the only tourist there. He mouthed along with the guide as the man laid out the _Carta Caritatis _(Charter of Love)'s basic principles – Obedience, Poverty, Chastity, Silence, Prayer, and Work. With some disappointment Grégoire noted that he fulfilled only one, maybe two of those principles in his actions (the other being work). He nevertheless felt calmed by the beautiful structure, covered in moss and ivy. 

Upon leaving the grounds he felt a certain despair – he had seen many dead things and many living people, but had he learned anything? Was his time well spent?

He wandered north, unconsciously heading back to Dublin, stopping at inns as he went, occasionally staying with a family or out in the open. He had been traveling for over a month in total when he stopped at a house in a small farming community and asked if there were any sites around.

Grégoire had tried going around with a bowl and begging for his food, as did the Buddha, but it was too strange a custom. He could only answer honestly when they inquired if he had money on him (which he did – often more than their savings) so he looked like a rogue. Instead he offered to do chores for a meal, and chopped wood and milked cows, and sometimes stayed the night.

At this particular house he inquired after any churches around, or places of interest, as he had already missed High Mass. The small structure housed a working family – a husband and wife and several children running around behind them. The father introduced himself as Mr. O'Muldoon.

"There's ruins out back," he said, pointing. "In de woods. Yer can't miss de wee stone tower."

He thanked them and left, wandering into the forest. This was the place where legends had it that fairies roamed, but he did not believe in such nonsense. He was nearly in despair as he spotted the little enclosure, because it was starting to rain. It was no more than what had probably been the nave of a church, but some of the stone roof was preserved even if the back was not, so that he could sit beneath it and be dry. There were, he noticed now, lumps of fallen stones elsewhere in the grass, with dirt over them. This site had been long-abandoned, but tonight, it would be his home.

As the rain came down, he lit his only candle and set it carefully in the corner, on the stone floor. There was something there. Taking the candle in one hand, he began to wipe away the grime and dirt to find a tiny mosaic portraiture of some saint, not clearly defined but recognizable for his traditional tonsure and golden halo. He had a staff in one hand and his other hand pointed with one finger in some direction. Was it Patrick? It was probably Patrick. He crossed himself. "It is just you and me tonight," he said to the saint, and began Vespers. Afterwards he ate a little black bread, and at Compline, extinguished the candle and drifted off to sleep. The rain had let up, but he was hardly going wandering through the wet woods at night, so he rested his head on his sack and slept.

When he woke for Vigils it was sudden, and the candle was lit again. Had he not put it out? It was thick enough to not be burned down. In a haze he sat up, and stared at the saint. _He's pointing._

Grégoire barely remembered saying prayers or going back to sleep. He woke for Lauds and it was light out. The candle was out, and had not burned down, and it was dry and sunny, but the saint was still pointing. "Thank you," he said, crossing himself, and projected the exact angle of the finger in the mosaic set in stone. It lead to a path, not the one he had come through but one going in a similar direction.

He left the woods hungry. He was out of food, having not thought to acquire it from the O'Muldoons. The rest of his stuff was too hard or moldy to eat. When he merged onto the dirt path, he tried to point himself in the saint's direction, which helped him pick a direction.

His stomach was growling terribly when an hour had passed and he came up on a small house with smoke from the chimney – a sign that despite its isolation, it was not abandoned. There were also some chickens running around, and he heard the bell of a cow from behind the wooden building. There was some attempt at a vegetable garden on the right side, but the crops were not doing well.

Grégoire readjusted his satchel, which hung over his shoulder and by his side instead of on his back, and stepped up the stairs to the porch and front door. "Hello?" His hand was still on the door from the knock when it pulled back to reveal a woman with strawberry blond hair, long and straight, standing there as if she had been expecting him. Clearly she had seen his approach.

"'ill ye be 'avin sumndin?" she said, arms crossed.

"I am terribly sorry," he said, bowing, "but I will gladly perform some labor for you if you would feed this hungry pilgrim."

She looked him over – he could not be anything _but_ a strange Christian pilgrim in his odd dress. "We don't 'av any grub."

"You – you have a cow. I could milk it for you."

"Dat coy 'asn't given me milk in days," she said. She stood mainly in darkness, her house unlit, but he could tell she was thin. "We don' even have any fuel for de fire ta cook yer food."

"I could chop wood," he said. "If you have an axe."

"For what? For free? I told yeh – we don' have any food!"

He stepped back. "I'm sorry." He lowered his eyes, looking down at her bare feet. "I'm doing penance. Let me cut some wood for you and I'll be on my way." She obviously needed it more than he did. He had a sack of coins in a pouch under his shirt.

"Yeh're doin' things for free now?"

"Saint Benedict said that work was a form of prayer," he said, trying to give her whatever answer she needed to accept his offer.

This one seemed to work. "There'sn axe in de back, in de shed I t'ink."

He nodded. "Thank you."

There was plenty of wood – trees had fallen down everywhere and had been left uncut. He didn't know who else was living in that house, but they were clearly incapable of manual labor. He worked until his back began to ache, which coincided nicely with Sext, where he took a break and surveyed his work. He had cut enough firewood for several weeks. Perhaps that was why he was so exhausted. He leaned back and closed his eyes. If he nodded off, at least there was an axe by him.

"I got sum milk," the woman announced, and he opened his eyes to her standing over him, blocking the sun. "Guess de coy jist needed rest."

He nodded and stood up, but he needed his staff to do it. "I'm sorry," he said, as she looked surprised by his apparent exhaustion. "I refuse to accept my own limitations." He limped back with her to the house, where he was finally permitted entrance.

It only seemed to have two rooms – a bedroom and the main room, which was much larger. "Does anyone else live here?"

"No," she said. "But I 'av ter say dat when fierce quare men cum ter me door."

"Common sense," he said, taking a seat at the half-broken table. One leg was missing and a stump held it up. "I'm sorry. My name is Grégoire Bellamont."

"Yeh expect me ta pronounce dat?"

He smiled. "I can't pronounce Irish, so we're even. You can call me Gregory." He took the offered cup of milk and drank it greedily.

"I loike it. It's exotic. Grey_ware_." She paused.

He chuckled. "Your accuracy is stunning, Miss – "

"Caitlin. MacKenna."

"Miss MacKenna."

"Yeh sound so proper – but yer not English, yer French."

"Born in France. My father's English. He ... had an affair with his maid." He said it because it made her chuckle and spit out her milk, which made him laugh.

"So wha yeh live?"

"Raised in France, went to England, then Bavaria, then Spain, came home to England ... and now here. If you want to know why, my guess is as good as yours. I just try to walk in G-d's path."

"Yer soun' loike a priest."

"I used to be a monk."

"You left de church?"

"The church left me."

She did not inquire after that. It was obviously too loaded a question. "Well, dere's nuthin special out here."

"There are some ruins in the woods about a mile back."

"Really? I don' – I don' know, wander around." She took his empty cup from him and refilled it. "'suppose you'll want ter know wha me family is."

"I met the O'Muldoons," he said, "but they didn't mention you."

"Noice couple. Laddies are screamers, but not really brutal."

He nodded.

"Bejasus, yer polite."

"Do you want me to be otherwise?"

"It makes me uneasy."

He looked down at his cup, then up at her again. "How far are you along?"

The question did not strike her as hard as he thought it would, but she did look as though something had hit her, however much she had been expecting something along those lines. "T'ree months."

He just nodded.

"Am I showin'?" She was covered in a blue, ratty gown that was rather shapeless.

"No, but you keep putting your hand over your stomach."

She laughed. It was nice to hear. "Yer a smart bugger." She poured the last of the milk into her cup and sat down across from him. "Me ma and pa didn't approve, whaen we said we wud git married. Wanted nothing ta do wit' me. And he didn' want nothing to do wit' me, either." She put a hand over her forehead, blocking eye contact. "He bought me some medicine ta get rid of it. I said no."

He crossed himself, but only gestured for her to continue.

"So he kicked me out. But he gave me a wee nicker for de road, an' I bought dis gaff wi' it." She looked down. "An' 'ere I am."

"Is there a town around here? Somewhere to buy food?"

"'s about foive miles down de road."

"Is the market still open?"

"'til dusk."

He stood up. "Then I had better get going. Thank you for your hospitality, Miss MacKenna. I will return, with G-d's help, in a few hours."

"I can't pay yeh."

"Money means nothing to me," he said. "Too many years as a monk, I suppose." And with that, he abruptly left her presence and set off to town.

* * *

When he returned, it was getting dark, and his back ached again from being laden with packages. She looked shocked – almost horrified – to see him politely enter and then set them all down on her kitchen table. "There's bread – and grain, for the cow and chickens – and some mead, and some whiskey, and sugar – " 

"_Sugar!_"

" – and I don't know, some other things." He collapsed into his seat, the day's events wearing on him, and it was almost time for Vespers. "Excuse me. It's time for prayer." Without another word, he walked out the door and to the side of the house, where he recited the entire service by heart to the setting sun. She had opened all the packages and the contents were scattered, but she was standing there, quite uncomfortable in her own house. "I'm sorry. Have I done something wrong?"

"Yer always apologizing," she said. "I can't pay fer dis."

"I told you, you don't have to – "

"Ye even a pilgrim? Who ye?"

He sighed. It was always about his blasted money. "My English family is quite wealthy. My brother will give me whatever I want. But possessions mean nothing to me, besides the necessities of life. That's the way I was raised and it remains my mindset," he said. "Food _is_ a necessity – for _both_ of you."

"Do yeh – do yeh _want_ somethin'?"

He sighed. "I'm very tired. May I sleep on your floor tonight?"

"That's it?"

"Yes, Miss MacKenna – that is it." He rubbed his eyes. "And if you excuse me – I am very tired, and would like to sleep a little before Compline."

"Oh. Yes. Of course," she said, and disappeared into her room, emerging with a rug. "I'm sorry – "

"It will be fine. I can sleep on stone. Thank you." He laid out the mat and a small pillow from his bag.

"Dere's nothin' else?"

"No, Miss McKenna."

"Yer sure?"

"Yes."

She did not seem to believe him. Perhaps she had calculated how much he had spent and knew she owed him a small fortune. He laid down, but she would not let him sleep. "Are yeh still a monk or somethin'?"

"What? No, I said, I've actually been -," it dawned on him that she was hovering over him in a particular manner. "No, no! That is not why I came here." He could feel his cheeks burning. "That is not what this is about. If I sent the wrong signals – "

She stepped back, a little alarmed. Perhaps they were both embarrassed. "I just – I didn't know. Fer sure."

"No, please! I assure you, nothing of the kind. I am not under any ... vow, but that is not why I came here. Please believe me."

Her face was red now, too. "I believe yeh. I'm sorry, I tought – It doesn't matter. Forget it."

He nodded, unable to think of anything else to say, and she disappeared into her bedroom. He did not, however, find sleep before Compline, only afterwards, and it was an uneasy one at that.

* * *

Grégoire rose as he always did for prayer in the dead of night, lighting a candle to find his way and not trip over half the kitchen. He was not successful and knocked over a chair. 

"Yeh need anyt'ing?"

"No!" he said, embarrassed again. "I just – am very clumsy, trying to find my prayer book." He turned and saw her in the hallway leading to her bedroom, holding her own candle.

"Well if ye don' mind - I'm starvin,'" she said, and began to tear through the bread, starting with the white and moving to the black. "Oh G-d, I've been so hungry."

"A normal human response. I get hungry and I'm accustomed to fasting for any reason."

She downed her bread with milk. "Yeh were really a monk? Robes and everyt'ing? Funny haircut?"

He ran a hand over the top of his head. "It just grew back, actually."

"Why did they keck yer out?"

"Many reasons, but mainly, I think I would have killed myself with my monkery," he said. "Martin Luther said that, but it's true for me too. Without the heresy."

She finished off the milk. "It wud be a shame."

"If what?"

"If yea'd killed yerself. Yer such a good man."

"Thank you."

The silence lasted a long time for an awkward silence. He wasn't counting, but it must have been a good twenty seconds before she kissed him, and there was no sacred or religious resistance. They practically toppled over the table. "Watch the back," he said. She was right; he wasn't a monk anymore. At that moment, he certainly didn't want to be.

"I didn't come here for this," he said, forcing himself to pull away from her for a brief moment. It was also to catch his breath. "Everything I told you was true. Do you want me to go?"

"Stupid monk," she said. "Am I _actin'_ loike I want yeh ter _leave?_" She paused. "Is it 'cuz of the – "

He shushed her, taking her hand away from his shoulder and putting them both on her stomach, where there was a small swelling. "No. I just – am not very experienced with women."

If it bothered her, she brokered no opposition. Grégoire did not leave the house, but he did not return to his mat on the floor, either.

... Next Chapter - Missives From Ireland


	28. Missives from Ireland

Manner of Devotion

by DJ Clawson

"_Everybody likes to go their own way--to choose their own time and manner of devotion."_

_Jane Austen, Mansfield Park_

Author's Note: My policy: Update twice a week or when a chapter reaches 5-10 comments, whichever comes first.

Warning: Accents ahead.

* * *

Chapter 28 – Missives from Ireland 

The Darcys received a number of correspondences from Grégoire as he had promised. Sometimes they came in clumps, others not, but he was nothing if not a prolific writer about the places he went and the sites he saw. It was the first and the last that concerned Darcy. Aside from his travelogue meant for the public (meaning, the rest of the household), he included a letter to Darcy.

_Dear Brother, _

_I need to make an inquiry but am unable to do so from my present location. If you employ your steward, I would happily compensate him for his time. _

_I was hosted by a couple named Hugh and Nora MacGowan. Their son James served in the regiment in His Majesty's armies. They do not know how to read, so he did not write them while abroad, but last they heard, his regiment was sent to Waterloo and took many casualties. However, they have never been informed of his death, and he has not returned or sent message that he is alive. While they are not believing him to be, they would like to know what became of him. They do not have the finances to travel to London and conduct further inquiries. I of course offered them my services best I could. With the information provided below (physical description, etc), it still may be an impossible task, but perhaps something can be dug up in London, or one of the members of his regiment can be spoken to about his death. _

_I will also include the address at which they can be reached if it can be safely concluded that he is passed on to the next life. If he is alive, some effort could perhaps be made to get him to visit his grieving parents. _

_When I am at a location where I can be reached, I will let you know. Otherwise, I leave this task to you. If you do not have the time, I open my accounts for someone to be hired to investigate it. Spare no expense. _

_Thank you. _

_Grégoire Darcy-Bellamont _

That Grégoire had been ready to champion some lost soldier's parents' cause was no surprise at all to his elder brother, who showed it to his wife.

"So kind of him," Elizabeth said. "What will you do?"

"Have a solicitor sent to London," he said.

The next notable letter, beyond traveling tales, was remarkably brief.

_Brother, _

_I have decided to stay in County Carlow for a little while. I find it very pleasant here. I have opened a box so that I can receive posts for you at Tullow, box number 0828. _

_G-d Bless. _

_Grégoire Darcy-Bellamont _

"His lack of explanation is stunning," Darcy said. It was the sort of letter Darcy would write, but not Grégoire. Or, it was not in the style of letters he had been writing.

"Maybe he met a girl and he doesn't wish to admit it."

Darcy returned Elizabeth's look, and then both broke into laughter at the idea.

* * *

Two weeks before, the paper of the final letter was still rolled up in Grégoire's sack, unused. He stirred for Vigils with no desire to get up; it was just his body's natural reaction and he rolled over, trying to ignore it. He did not want to wake from his dream and find himself alone in that little shelter of a ruin, beside the saint. It seemed so wet and miserable, and this was much better, even if the bed wasn't exactly high quality. 

He swallowed all of the alarm that it was not a dream and that there was a woman beside him by reminding himself,_ You are not a monk_. If this was the way he had to get used to it, it was not such a terrible thing.

Caitlin did not stir beside him, even when he removed his hand from her belly, where it had roamed in his sleep. It was barely daybreak as he yawned and reached over to open the shutters, bringing the morning sun into their faces.

"Ow!" came a cry beside him. "Why – what time is it?"

"Time for Vigils," he said. "I'm sorry – my body just knows." He made a move to rise, but she grabbed him by the cross around his neck and pulled him back down. "All right, all right."

"I don' want ta be alone," she said. "Is dat so brutal?"

"No," he said. In fact, he didn't think it was terrible at all. There was something to be said for waking up next to a live person and their warm body, no matter what the outside temperature was. He only had one former experience with it, and it had been so guilt-ridden that he barely remembered the specifics.

"Why – why did yeh do al' dis for me?"

He assumed she was referring to his stocking her kitchen for a month. "I would have done it for anyone. I have the money. I can't take it with me."

"Really?"

"Really," he said, facing her. "As for the rest of it – I suppose I'm not much of a monk after all." He smiled and kissed her head. Her hair needed a wash, but it was a lovely color of red and blond, and not curled or tossed up like English gentlewomen.

She giggled and leaned into him. "Yer shirt is so soft."

"It's cotton." It was more than a little worn because he had yet had many chances to wash it, but it was softer on his skin. He wore it as an undershirt at the abbot's orders and Dr. Maddox's strong suggestion.

"I 'ave never felt cotton before."

"Neither had I."

She laced her fingers with his. His were calloused from long hours of various kinds of manual and scriptural labor, hers the same. She was not a soft English rose. She had probably grown up on a farm and done her share of chores.

"Why do yeh 'av cuts on yer arms?"

She was referring to the scars on his forearms that went up nearly the length of them. "Oh, that was from where they had to take skin –" He paused and said, "It's not a pleasant story."

"Neither is me gettin' knocked up an' Neil leavin' me.."

"I'm sorry."

"Yeh always say dat," she said, "and I tink yeh mean it. I 'ave never met anyone loike yeh."

"Me neither."

That must have been the right answer, because she kissed him. He had largely lost all linear thought when he had to stop her from pulling up his shirt, the only thing he was still wearing besides his religious jewelry. "Don't."

"Why?"

"Because – I don't want you to see it." The mood – at least on his end – was temporarily deflated. "When I said I almost killed myself in my discipline, I am serious."

"So you've never shown anyone?"

"A lot of doctors, my brother, and my entire abbey, but I don't remember it. And even then, I was ashamed." His grip on her hand unintentionally tightened.

"All right," she said, and let go of his shirt. It stayed on.

* * *

They were both starving, and dove into all available food. Grégoire went out to feed the chickens and the cow, which for animals seemed to somehow convey surprise at his presence and his actions. He returned to the house with a pail of fresh milk. Caitlin drank to the point of being ill, and he helped her get outside in time, holding back her long hair. 

"'s been this way since – yeh know," she said. "But it wus less cos I wasn't eatin'."

"You need to eat. Even if it makes you sick." He practically carried her back to the house and set her in the only chair with a back, providing her with a little mead that he had thrown a shaving of ginger into. "Sip."

"How do yer know so much aboyt _afflicted women_ or whatever yer callin' it in England?"

"I've known many pregnant women. Relatives and townsfolk near my abbey in Spain," he said.

A little worn from her recent experience, she sipped the concoction before setting it on her lap. "Are yer 'eadin'?"

"As in, leaving?"

She nodded.

Did he know what he should do? Certainly not. Did he even know what the right thing to do was? She was a pregnant woman – unmarried, and in need of someone, and no child would result of their union. "Today? Not unless you tell me to."

She did not. Did he know what he was doing? No. Did he care? Not in the least.

* * *

The next day, Grégoire was on his way back from the trip to Tullow to set up his post box when he encountered Mrs. O'Muldoon. "Mr. – I'm so sorry – " 

"Grégoire. But you can call me Gregory, if it pleases you," he said, bowing to her. It was not something to which she was accustomed, and the plump Irish housewife forced herself into a curtsey. "Mrs. O'Muldoon. How are you?"

"I wasn' 'spectin' ta see yeh here."

"I am planning on staying in the area. For how long, I know not."

"I 'eard a rumor – are yer at – nearby ta us?"

"With Miss MacKenna, yes," he said. So he admitted to living in sin. "This is probably inappropriate of me but – what do you know of her?"

They continued down the path away from the market towards their homes, where she pulled him to the side. "She com here 'bout two months ago. Bought de house for a song – de animals wi' it – 'cuz the owner 'ad jist lost 'is struggle an' strife an' wanted ter move ter de city. She was lookin' for any deal she could make." She took his arm. "She was in a real bad way. 'suppose she told yeh dat."

"She did tell me the circumstances surrounding her condition were bad, yes."

"She's a nice lass – can't say much for her livin' alone, but she wus shuk. We woulda taken 'er in but we have a baby and we couldn't afford it, yeh know – "

He just nodded kindly. "I know, yes. Of course."

"She wus al' banged up; bruises and the loike. She could barely walk straight. She towl us a wee aboyt her paddy not takin' well to her leavin,' but not much. We won't talk about these tings, women. Yeh know."

He nodded again. "Since then?"

"She's been alone. Not seen a soul fer all we know. She used ta go ta market, but den she stopped."

"I understand. I just wanted to know – "

"Terrible ting, to be all alone. But that doesn' mean yer obligated in any way, Mr. Gregory – "

"No, I understand," he said. He was just trying to confirm Caitlin's story – dirty as he felt, doing it. It was something his brother would do. "Thank you, Mrs. O'Muldoon. I'll see you at church."

"Bejasus bless yeh, Mr. Gregory."

"G-d bless."

They parted and he continued down the path, humming as he went.

* * *

Was it physical satisfaction he felt, or was it something more? Either way he liked the feeling, even if he could not distinguish it properly. Nothing tied him to Caitlin; he could leave her at any time, and if he felt generous, even leave her enough money to get through her pregnancy without making a dent in his annual income. He didn't tell her that, but he didn't lie about his finances, either – she had enough sense not to ask. Either way, he was content in a way he had never felt before. _It must be physical affection_. He had known the love of brotherhood, of G-d, and of family. A woman was beyond his experience. His one night in Bavaria did not count; he could see that now. 

_How am I to go to Confession?_ It was the thought that truly bothered him. _How can I confess to a sin with no intention of reform?_ He did not want to ignore the orders of a priest, but then again, hadn't he done that before?

He went each morning to Mass in the local church, or High Mass if he was too lazy to get up, but it was several days before he stepped in the box and crossed himself. "Before I begin, I must ask – Father, are you a member of any of the monastic orders?"

"Naw, me current sun, scon are in me weck."

"I am excommunicated from my order and would be unable to speak to you if you were. That was why I asked," he said, and crossed himself. "Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It has been two months since my last confession." He did not go through his entire history with this priest – he had confessed all those sins long ago and did not wish to go over them again. "I am living with an unmarried woman who is carrying another man's child."

"Who is dis oither lad?"

"I do not know him. All I know is that he told her to get rid of the child, and she ran away from him, and was living on her own before I found her."

"Where is 'er family?"

"She said they would not speak to her after they discovered her condition."

The priest paused. "Ye 'av relashuns wi' yer won?"

"Yes. Forgive me Father, but I would be lying if I did not say that I have every intention to keep doing it."

"Yeh intend ter marry 'er?"

He leaned back in the box. For some reason, he had not anticipated this question. "I do not at this stage know. Marriage is a sacrament. There is more to it than physical pleasure or financial necessity."

"Yeh are supporting 'er?"

"Yes?"

"In exchange for deese favors?"

He colored. "No. She was starving and I bought her food with no intention of things proceeding as they did. I was just returning from a pilgrimage to Jerpoint Abbey when I encountered her. I had no intention of staying in the region."

"If yeh intend ter continue dees carnal relashuns, yeh must make an honest doll out av 'er."

Grégoire swallowed. "I need time to consider it. I take sacraments very seriously."

"But sexual prohibishuns, less so."

He bowed his head. "Forgive me, Father. I was a celibate monk most of my life. This is the first time I have ever been in a ... relationship with a woman aside from one other time, and I repented, and was forgiven. And that was when I was under oath. Now I have no such restrictions."

"Yeh 'av de restricshun av actin' loike a gran' Christian lad."

To this, he did not have an immediate answer. He had not looked forward to this, and he would not look forward to future sessions. But he could not marry Caitlin – he barely knew her. "If we are meant for marriage, then I will happily make her my wife and raise the child as my own. But now, I cannot answer you."

It was the turn of the priest to pause and consider. "Yer are rational and considerate, and obviously doin' yer won a deadly generosity. 'owever, yer are still livin' in sin an' must examine yer motives for doin' so. we are meant ter learn from sin – it leads us astray, but in doin' so, lets us clap wha de roi patt wus so we can reclaim it," he said. "Say ten Hail Marys and attend Mass at least once a week."

"Thank you, Father."

"Go wi' Bejesus, lad."

He had never felt like that box was such a prison, and never so relieved to be free of it. It was not the pronounced punishment – nothing in comparison to anything he had experienced in his past – so much as what the priest said. If this went on, he would have to marry Caitlin. On the other hand, if this went on, maybe he would want to.

* * *

After a brief refresher course with Mr. O'Muldoon and acquiring all the right materials, Grégoire set to work at repairing the floorboards of the kitchen, especially the ones that had a tendency to pop up when one stepped right on the other end. _Work is prayer_. So said Saint Benedict, even though he was still required to set aside time for prayer itself, and to attend Mass, and of course services on Sundays. 

"Are yeh sure yer not a monk?" Caitlin said as he finished Sext and joined her at the table for lunch. With the right spices and some failed attempts, she finally managed to get some good dishes together.

"Why? Do you want me to act like one?" he said, kissing her.

"T'be sure not," she said, and began putting out the food. "It's just – all the people I know who are runnin' to church are either priests or so – "

" – self-righteous?"

"Aye." She stopped her conversation and bowed her head as he said grace in Latin, and then they ate. "I jist mind dis lady hittin' me wi' a rod for runnin' up an' down de aisles whaen oi wus wee."

"I don't think Christ would have hit you for being a child," he said. "I don't think he would hit you at all."

"Yeh shoulda told 'er that," she said. "'slike, yer just all good, nothing bad in yeh at'tall –" She covered her eyes. "Excuse me."

He was used to her running outside after eating – she was pregnant and not used to such good food – but he sensed something was the matter. When she was done being ill, she sat down on the front steps, weeping.

"Caitlin? What is it?"

She just shook her head, trying to shoo him away. Of course he would not be shooed, and sat down beside her, wrapping an arm around her. "What is it?"

"'s nothing."

"It is not."

She tried to meet his eyes, but failed, collapsing into his tunic. "I'm so sorry, so sorry – I shouldn't be doin' dis ta yeh. Yer so good – "

"You're not doing anything to me," he said, "except making me happy."

But she just kept sobbing, until she was so exhausted that he picked her up and carried her to her bed, where she remained for the rest of the day. Grégoire looked at the abandoned floor project and shook his head, spending the day in prayer, even if he did not know precisely what he was praying for.

... Next Chapter - Sacred Sacraments


	29. Sacred Sacraments

Manner of Devotion

by DJ Clawson

"_Everybody likes to go their own way--to choose their own time and manner of devotion."_

_Jane Austen, Mansfield Park_

Author's Note: My policy: Update twice a week or when a chapter reaches 5-10 comments, whichever comes first. Sorry for the delay this time. I was away from my computer.

Warning: Accents ahead.

* * *

Chapter 29 – Sacred Sacraments 

There didn't seem to be enough hours in the day. He had prayer, Mass, Caitlin, and chores around the house to get it into some semblance of shape. She was consuming food at the normal rate of a woman in her condition, entering her forth month, so it was not a surprise that he was at the market almost every day. She was initially not a good cook, but she was a fast learner, and Grégoire was a happy teacher.

"Why do yeh go ta Mass every day?" she asked one day, shortly after they had returned and he was trying to properly spice the potatoes before they went in the stove. "Is it so jaysus 'ill fergive yer sins?

"Every man is a sinner," he said, "but no, that's not why I go. I go because it's a sacrament."

"Dat's somethin' the priest used ta say."

It didn't mean, of course, that she understood it. He turned to her, wiping the last of the salt from his hands over the pot. "Through performing the sacraments and leading good lives we thank the Good L-rd for all that we have been given. Even when it's not much, even when it is so terrible we can hardly bare it – it's the only life we have."

"Yer 'onestly believe dat?"

"Have I ever said anything I do not believe?"

He put a cover over the pot, which could sit for a bit. "Let me take you somewhere."

She was all obliging as he led her into the forest, to the little ruin where he had stayed the night. It was much easier to see inside now with full daylight instead of rain. Some dirt obscured the mosaic, and he wiped it clean again. "When I was lost, I found this."

"'s St. Patrick," she said. "I seen it before. In other churches."

"I thought it might be. You see where he's pointing?" He gestured. "In the direction of your house. I didn't know which way to turn, so I followed him to you."

Caitlin giggled, and then realizing he was serious, leaned into him. He kissed her. "I don't know what I would have done without him."

* * *

The time seemed to be passing without his notice. He went to Tullow to check his mail, only to find a response from his brother, saying he would be looking into the business of the missing soldier on his response. 

The summer heat was beginning to set in and he was sweating by the time he returned to the house. Dropping off the packages on the porch, he removed the soap from them and headed off to the stream bar behind the house. The cow mooed at him as he passed; she was doing much better now that she was regularly feed.

Only in the privacy afforded by the forest and the bushes around the stream that he removed his outer tunic, and then his undershirt, which he proceeded to wash carefully in the tiny flow of water. Afterwards he hung it in the sun to dry and sat by the stream, removing his sandals and letting the water cool his aching feet.

"Didja get de feed?"

He scrambled to his feet, which involved a lot of splashing, to reach for his tunic. "Caitlin, please don't – "

She was standing in the sun, a wrap covering her hair. "I've seen de rest of yeh, ye know."

He held his tunic up over his bare chest. "I know – but this is quite different."

"Well, now it's out, ye might as'well not be hidin' in shame."

He blushed. "It is not – " but he couldn't contradict her. It _was_ shame. "I'm sorry."

She held out her hand, and he sighed and put the wool tunic in it. They sat down together on the grass, waiting for his shirt to dry. He had not seen his back in a long while – not since once in the mirror at Pemberley some months ago – but there were scars that would remain, and times when it was still tender and easily made raw.

"Does it 'urt?"

"Sometimes."

Caitlin removed her headscarf, which was little more than a random piece of yellow cloth anyway, and dipped it into the stream. She took the soaked cloth and gently applied it to his shoulder blade. Beyond the initial contact with cold, he stopped flinching and his body relaxed.

"Does it fale better nigh?"

"Oh G-d, yes," he said. "I've never – I never had anyone else to do this for me. I mean, doctors did it, but it wasn't quite the same." He played with his rosary as she applied the compress to his back. The feeling was heavenly. "M-Most of it I did to myself. The white strikes are from where they sewed me up the last time. I was being punished for disobeying the Rule – the monastic rule book – and my flesh was too weak. It just broke. There was so little left after infection that the doctors had to take skin from my arm. That part I don't remember at all. There are some things in between – I remember the abbot telling me he had to excommunicate me. I remember talking to the Archbishop of Oviedo. I remember sitting on the coast." He shook his head. "It is all a mess. I dreamt I was being hammered on an anvil, and it was the saints, taking turns with the - " he broke off. He couldn't continue. He had many dreams as he lay in fever, but he remembered only a few, and all of them haunted him.

"Some tings – 'tis just best ta forget," she said. He had a mental flash of what Mrs. O'Muldoon had told him about Caitlin when she came to the area, all broken and bruised, not to mention pregnant. Meanwhile, the actual Caitlin put down her cloth and took up by his side, kissing him. "Yer not so terrible ta look at. Not loike yer missing an eye or somet'ing." She smiled. "In fact, I kinda loike yeh."

"That is rather comforting to know, as I like you as well," he said, returning the kiss.

* * *

His shirt was dried by the time they stepped back into the sunlight. Grégoire's mind was in a pleasant haze as he dressed himself and they returned to the house proper. While Caitlin sorted the packages and prepared lunch, Grégoire reread the letters from his family, which included one from Georgiana, eager to know if he would return home in time for Robert's first birthday. Had that much time really passed? 

"'sat from yer brad'er?"

"Sister," he said. "Her name is Georgiana. She her first son is was born last spring."

"Yer never blather aboyt yer family," she said as she put his soup in front of him.

"You never talk about yours."

"I 'ad a brad'er, little Connor, but 'e died of de fever a few years ago. And me ma and pa, but dat's it. Nothin' exciting. Just a little farm. Not loike a great English house."

"I didn't grow up in England," he said. "I was born and raised in Mon-Claire, which is a wasteland at the top of a mountain in France. She went into exile after being fired from her job. I never would have known about my father if he hadn't come before he died to meet me. I was ten, I believe."

"Why did 'e coom?"

"He was trying to make amends for the things he had done in his life. My mother was his wife's personal maid. She was pregnant with Georgiana when I was conceived. When Lady Anne found out, she fired her on the spot, and never forgave my father. She died after childbirth, and her last words were to curse my father."

"And your brad'er?"

"He's over ten years older than me. He inherited everything and found out about me through some odd banking reports about an account in France. This was nine or so years ago. It came as quite a shock to him."

"But he didn't toss you off?"

He shook his head. "He embraced me like I was his real brother. He did everything he could do for me – everything that I let him. He would have let me use the Darcy name if I could, legally."

"'s not a noble, is he?"

"His mother was. And our sister married an earl." He saw her look down shamefully at her plate. "It hardly matters to me. I have no rights to anything under English law, out of wedlock. Father was just being polite when he left me an inheritance."

"'An_ inheritance,_'" she said, as if the notion itself was absurd. "Can I ask yeh a question?"

He smiled. "Of course." The soup was a little heavy on the ginger. She was not familiar with so many roots and spices to work with, but there were more successes than failures.

"What are rich people loike?"

He just broke into laughter at the question. She hadn't meant it seriously – there was no way she could of. That didn't mean he was exempt from providing an answer, so he took a piece of potato floating in the soup and put it in his mouth, chewing on it to give himself time to mull over the question. "Do you wish to know a secret?"

She squealed. "Aye!"

"They are terribly, _terribly_ bored."

Neither of them could hold back their laughter at that. He was glad he had swallowed his food properly, else he was not likely to hold it in. "They have their servants do every menial task, so much to the point that they do not have to dress themselves, and are left with nothing to do. So they read books and go on walks and then sit down for a long dinner where they discuss reading books and going on walks. And then write people about it, because writing takes time."

"Yer joking!"

"I was once privy to a discussion of how they were planning on replanting the garden to it might look more in fashion with something someone had read in a magazine. I nearly fell asleep, G-d help me! I mean, there is intelligent conversation, but still - " He shook his head, still smiling at Caitlin's bemusement. Whatever made her happy made him happy.

"One day ye'll read me a letter."

"One day you'll read it yourself," he said. "But it will still be boring."

Time and time again she resisted his attempts to each her to read, mainly because of her own prejudices against her intellect, and it seemed like such a wasteful thing to do with her time. The undertone was obvious when he considered it: she did not know where her life was going beyond the birth of the child, if she lived at all. They seemed to be neck-and-neck in terms of their esteem of themselves. Perhaps it was why it was so easy to relate to her, this other lost soul.

* * *

The days and nights fell into an easy pattern. He went to church without her. She had her own reasons, both societal and personal, not to show her face in the house of G-d, especially beside a man that was not her husband while carrying a child that was not his or a husband's. "Pray fer me," she said, and kissed him good-bye every Sunday. 

Maybe she noticed all of the little improvements around the house and kept track of them and what they might have cost, or maybe she didn't. He never fully revealed his wealth (she would have found the number imaginary), but he found ways to slip things into her life on some pretense or another. They needed a new leg for the table, so he found one. They needed new sheets for the bed, so he bought them. Expensive items like soap and sugar and even chocolate found their way onto the shelves. After a bad rain he had Mr. O'Muldoon come over to help him repair the roof.

"The misses is just goin' ta ask me, so I might as well – are you t'inkin' a marryin' her, or are you not the type?"

"Marry your wife? That would present some difficulties."

The man laughed so hard he nearly fell off the roof, but insisted on an answer to the question.

"I don't know," Grégoire said. "I have no experience in this area."

"Who has experience in marryin' someone before dey get married?"

He could not fault his logic there. "I suppose you're right. I just never imagined I would be considering this question."

But he was. He would be lying to himself if he thought otherwise, and his confessor (who could only be the only priest in the church) kept reminding of it. If Caitlin was not married in four months, her child would be a bastard. While Grégoire could not in all honestly bring himself to speak ill of children out of wedlock (being one himself), he could not imagine what Caitlin would do. Mr. Darcy had given his mother money to go back to France – enough money for her and him to live on for years in Mon-Claire.

However, marriage was more than charity. It was a holy sacrament, not to be done lightly, or at least in the ideal sense of the word, even though it often was done lightly or for any number of convenient purposes. Darcy, who had even more reason to marry and produce an heir to Pemberley, had avoided it until he was eight and twenty – but then again Darcy was not a social animal and mistrusted everyone while Grégoire heedlessly tried to see only the good in people, often to his disadvantage. He tried to see Caitlin in shades – she was scared, she was tough, she could be moody, she had little tolerance for stupidity (in terms of customs, not learning, of which she had basically nothing). She was not demure and soft (even though her skin was). She was not a church-going woman, but she had faith in her, even if it had no means of expression. He could not have a deep theological discussion on the influence of the Council of Trent on doctrine, but he could talk to her of G-d and she would listen. Not that he sought to engage her to alter her character as much as his own need to express his feelings to _someone_, and she was always a willing listener, and often would see the obvious where he would not. He told her of the places he visited, the things he had seen, the things in the world he could not understand and could not be explained in books. It was not a structured debate over a dinner table or in a parlor room as it was a bedside confession and an earnest response, however base it was.

"What do you think of Predestination?" he said, and explained the concept to her on a whim.

"Why worry 'bout a silly thing like dat?" she said. "Either tis true or tis'n't, but I'm not goin' go around wonderin' if people I meet are destined for heaven or hell or just goin' there because of someting dey did. Tis downright rude of me."

He laughed and tightened his hold around her. It was getting harder for them to lie so close together, at least at the torso, and he put a hand over her swelling stomach and kissed it.

"I luk loike I ate somethin' wrong."

"You look beautiful. Also, you look pregnant, which should not come as a surprise to you." It was his business to make her laugh. Otherwise, she was often increasingly anxious about her condition. They didn't speak of his staying on, or their relationship – that subject remained too uncomfortable, as neither of them had the answer. She didn't ask him to stay, but he didn't leave of his own volition, and for the time, they were both happy with that.

One late early summer day Grégoire walked to Tullow to find not only a letter from Scotland but one from Darcy, which while not uncommon, was longer than his brother usually wrote his missives.

_Dear Grégoire, _

_My steward has located James MacGowan. He is alive but in debtor's prison outside London. I do not know the specifics in entirety, but in a particular engagement with the French he had a fight with his superior and made a movement that many interpreted as running from battle, a punishable offense. He was fined, and his pay after Waterloo was smaller than he had assumed, so he borrowed loans to pay it and found himself in debt overnight. He is there now, in whatever conditions they have there. His debts are to the sum of some 600 pounds; they may have been other loses from gambling or drinking while he was afield. Many people from his regiment are also housed there, as I am to understand. _

_I await your decision as to how to resolve this. _

_Your Brother, _

_Darcy _

He purchased paper on the spot and penned a response in the post office, and sent it express.

_Dear Brother, _

_Please see to it that the six hundred pounds is removed from my account to pay his debt, and any others he may have incurred. Also purchase him a ticket to Dublin, and some money for travel to Drogheda, to be given on the condition that he is to return to his parents immediately, as they are quite desperate to say him. You do not have to mention my name at any point in these proceedings. _

_Your grateful brother, _

_Grégoire _

_PS I apologize for the brevity of this letter. A longer one will follow about far less pressing matters. _

If he was face-to-face with his brother, Darcy would probably say something against it even though it was a small amount for both of them, but then Grégoire would just remind him that Elizabeth had once told him how he paid their brother off (not knowing the brotherly connection) with ten thousand pounds just to save a girl's reputation.

Grégoire was apparently still smiling as he returned to the house, because Caitlin immediately grilled him on his grin. "My brother. Pound-wise, penny-foolish."

The next morning he forced his sister's letter upon her as they laid together in bed, "so – so ha – "

"He."

"So he seen – "

"So he _can_."

She shoved the letter in his face. "Jist read it."

He collected his sister's letter, and kissed Caitlin on the cheek. "You did very well."

"Rubbish!"

"I am most serious. I always am. Except when I'm not." He squinted, as he was without his spectacles and was not eager to remove himself from his particular position to retrieve them.

_Dear Brother, _

_It is so strange that I miss you most terribly even though you are only a short distance away in comparison to Spain! I accept your apologies that you will not be attending Robert's first birthday. We do not need to hold him up so he can stand now; he does it on his own! Only with much falling over, so that I worry horribly for him, but William only laughs and the housekeeper tells us all children are the same way, covered in bruises as they find their footing. I can't imagine our brother or Elizabeth allowing their children to run about at such a young age, but I will hardly contradict my husband or the nurse. _

_Brother may come up and bring Geoffrey, but Elizabeth is reluctant to be so far north with her mother unwell, even though her condition has not changed. We have not had many English guests, but the Maddoxes and Mr. Mugen came up as they were traveling the country a bit. Mr. Mugen is set to leave in the late summer, and he has never been to the Scotland, and I am told the Japanese are great lovers of traveling, much like you I suppose! _

_Mrs. Wallace from the next estate has been over often to advise me on my garden, which I am afraid has been in neglect since my confinement, and she says that perhaps – _

"It goes on about this for a while."

"Yer sisters sounds sweet," she said, "but spare me, please."

He closed the letter and put it on the new nightstand.

"What have yeh been tellin' 'em?" Because obviously, he had not been telling them the truth.

"This and that. That I am happy here, near the shrine of Saint Patrick, and am contemplating my future. All of which is true." He gave her a reassuring smile. "The English talk about many things in their letters, but not the things that are most personal. Only if the circumstances are dire."

"So is dat why yeh always take forever ta get ta de point?"

He laughed and kissed her.

... Next Chapter - Intruder


	30. Intruder

Manner of Devotion

by DJ Clawson

"_Everybody likes to go their own way--to choose their own time and manner of devotion."_

_Jane Austen, Mansfield Park_

Author's Note: My policy: Update twice a week or when a chapter reaches 5-10 comments, whichever comes first.

Warning: Accents ahead.

* * *

Chapter 30 - Intruder 

No part of his brother's request surprised Darcy, but nonetheless he was not eager to visit debtor's prison. He had been there twice for a different half-brother, and under much more frustrating (and expensive) circumstances.

The door was opened and a sandy-haired man still in partial uniform emerged, looking tired and confused as he was told by the officer that he was free to go.

"Your debts were paid," Darcy said, "courtesy of an anonymous donor who happened meet your desperate parents, who've had no word of you since the war, Mr. MacGowan." He did not wait for the man to respond before shoving some bills and a ticket in his hands. "Your ship leaves in the morning for Dublin. This was all done on the good faith that you would return home to them as expediently as possible. You make up whatever lie you like to explain your absence, but that would not be in the spirit of your patron. All I will tell you is that you had better be there for that ship's departure and you had better be in Ireland by the end of the week. Your parents are sick with grief, or so I'm told."

The former soldier looked down at the money and up at him, wide-eyed. "And who be ye?"

"His brother," he said. He had no desire to associate with this man. "I'll be there to make sure you get on that boat, Mr. MacGowan."

"I will." He crossed himself. "I didn' mean ta wind up – "

Darcy raised his hand to stop him, to telegraph, _I don't care. I'm just doing this for my overly charitable brother_. Something about prisons put him in an especially bad mood. "Tomorrow, Mr. MacGowan. Eight sharp." He left without another word to the soldier he had just freed. He just wanted to be free himself of this task. He would remain only to see him off, and then return to Derbyshire.

It was early yet, and he saw no reason to open the townhouse for a few days, so he was staying at Bingley's. Bingley needed a trip to Town for business, so they took it together, and dined with the Maddoxes. In the old days, Bingley had been trailed by his status-obsessed sisters and perpetually cup-shot brother-in-law. His traveling party was now smaller, but no less annoying to Darcy.

"I have to bring him," Bingley said in the carriage, petting Monkey in his lap. "Otherwise he'll just drive Jane insane. He gets terribly upset when I leave."

"So between me and your wife, you must choose your wife."

"Of course, Darcy."

"A proper choice, I admit. However I must remind you that your wife is less capable of throttling you."

Bingley just shrugged. "Why not? She's done it before."

When Darcy returned to the house after his task at the prison, the first person he was greeted by was not a person at all, though he did try to stand up like one and announce himself with a squeal.

"I don't care for you, either," Darcy said, and poured himself a glass of wine as he waited for Bingley to emerge from the study.

Bingley finally did, and Monkey climbed up him and onto his shoulder, which he took no real notice of. "I take it that it went well?"

"Well as expected," Darcy said, closing his book as Bingley sat down next to him. "I'll know for sure tomorrow morning if he's good to his word. Though I didn't ask for it. Still, he can't cash in the ticket."

"And then you'll write Grégoire? Assuming he's still in Tullow?"

"Yes. Wherever that is," Darcy said. "I suspect he is wandering around the area or has holed himself up somewhere nearby. He's not been terribly descriptive."

Bingley nodded. "How does he sound?"

"Happy. There is a slight undertone to it, or so Elizabeth assesses – she's always been better at this than me. But he's not going on and on about Irish monastic history anymore."

"So you don't know what he's doing."

Darcy was happy to have a friend who said the obvious, so he didn't have to say it.

"I take it he has not set a date for his return."

"No."

Bingley took a biscuit from the offered tray, which Monkey immediately grabbed. "Monkey! Give that back!" But the monkey just squawked at him. "I suppose I don't want something that's been in your filthy paws anyway." He took another biscuit for himself and dismissed the servant. "Well, if he continues to write regularly and he sounds well, then that is a great improvement and I would not be one to worry."

"You would worry if one of your children was in Ireland and acting beyond his normal habits."

"Grégoire is not your child. He is your brother, and is a grown man." Bingley frowned. "Not in the way we normally assume, but he nonetheless is capable of making his own decisions. Has he wasted away his entire inheritance gambling?"

"No."

"Has he attempted to rejoin the Church, perhaps under a different name?"

"No."

"Then you have no reason to worry."

"I'm not worried."

"Darcy," he said, "I've known you half my life now. I can read your indifferent stares better than your own sister. The only one who can best me is Mrs. Darcy."

Darcy said nothing, confirming Bingley's initial assertion, but not willing to admit _that_, either. Instead, he changed the topic. "Speaking of one's children ..."

"Oh, please, do not tell my sister."

"I'm sure she will get the truth of it out of you. Which, by the way, is?"

"That we had an incident in which we had a change of governesses." He scratched Monkey's tiny head. "As in, we no longer have one. Know of any?"

"Was she dismissed or did she storm out in a rage?"

"A little of both, actually."

Darcy gave one of his half-smiles. "How did Miss Bingley manage it?"

"This will impress you: Hunger strike."

"_What?_"

"She had nothing but well water with lemon in it for three days. And locked herself in her room. _And_ left the key in so I couldn't open the door without removing the hinges."

Darcy just kept smirking. "I admire her fortitude."

"It was a very ... admirable ... effort. In a way. And it did work. Mrs. Murrey gave up shouting through the door and was gone on the fourth day. Left a note of where to forward her last week's pay."

"Do you even have any idea what brought it on? The particular incident?"

"Georgie does not like piano. Beyond that, no one is eager to ask her."

* * *

James MacGowan was good to his silent vow and was seen going aboard a boat bound for Dublin. Darcy returned to the house to write a letter to Grégoire relating this events and wiled the day away fencing at the club. He was finally getting good enough on his left side to properly face his old opponents, which was key, because every year, Geoffrey came closer to besting him. He knew one day his son would beat him, and take his place in many respects, but he wanted to at least make him work for it. 

The next day he took George out for his birthday. It was not George Wickham's actual birthday, but within the month, and it was when he was in Town, which Darcy rarely was. George Wickham was four and ten and obsessed with entering Oxford as soon as he could. Legally and financially he could do it – Darcy said he would front him the tuition while they waited for George's trust to open – but George had not the tutoring to be ready for a University-level education. Nor did Darcy really think that a man barely halfway through then tens should go to University. Geoffrey would not begin Cambridge until he finished at Eton, and he was only beginning Eton in the fall. Darcy suspected it was more that George wanted to get out from the house than his desire to further his education. He wanted to say, _Don't rush so into adulthood. It has responsibilities beyond your imagination_. But he found he could not express these words, and instead he listened to George as he took him on a tour of the bookshops and purchased for him whatever he liked and did not already have.

"How is Mr. Bradley?" Darcy asked, leaving the broadness of the question open to interpretation.

"All right. Mother's pregnant again, if you hadn't heard."

He hadn't.

"Well, they're not sure yet, but they're still fairly certain. I guess that is why there's been no general announcement."

"Your mother is certainly quite resilient," he said.

"I know – I mean, I've read, I've asked – it's not something she can control, but I wish ..." he trailed off. Darcy let George find his words. "I wish she would slow down. For her health." He didn't specific between physical or mental, if there was any specification to be made.

"What does Mr. Bradley think?"

"I haven't asked Mr. Bradley what he thinks!"

"Of course not," Darcy said as they walked down the street towards Gracechurch. "What do you think he thinks?"

"He seems ... content. And he's very concerned with Izzy – that she becomes a proper lady. And he hired me a French tutor, so ... he does what he can."

"I am very pleased to hear that," Darcy said. _Very pleased indeed_. They came up on the apartment, and the first thing to great them was the sound of young Brandon wailing.

Mr. Bradley emerged when Darcy shut the door behind him. "Mr. Darcy."

"Mr. Bradley. I trust all is well."

"As it ever is," Mr. Bradley said with a roll of his eyes. "George, did he happen to buy you any new clothes, or was it all just books?"

"Next year, Mr. Bradley," George said.

"I will buy him a very smart suit," Darcy said, "but not until I do not fear him outgrowing it."

"Uncle Darcy!" Isabella Wickham came barreling down the stairs, bypassing her stepfather to curtsey to her uncle. "Did George keep his promise?"

"You should ask him that, Miss Wickham," he said as George produced the embroidery pattern she'd been begging in for. He insisted it was part of his own birthday present. Darcy did not discourage George from spoiling his sister, as no one else seemed to be doing so, and he did the same with Georgiana. It was not clear yet whether Isabella would turn down the path of her mother or follow more sensible footsteps, but it would definitely be close.

"I don't like to disappoint you, Izzy," George said, and she hugged him and kissed him, which he didn't seem to care for, the big man that he now was, and was wiping it off as Lydia Bradley made her appearance, carrying Brandon Bradley.

"Mr. Darcy," she said, not bothering to curtsey.

"Mrs. Bradley," he bowed.

"I assume you won't be staying for dinner, even if I offered?"

He did not want to pick a fight with her – not ever, but especially not in front of her children. "Unfortunately I am engaged elsewhere and am returning to Derbyshire tomorrow. Do you wish any messages delivered to your sisters there?"

"Tell them they'll have a new nephew or niece on the way to spoil, if they feel so inclined as to stop by," she said. "Feels like a niece."

He did not attempt to smile. It was not something he did. He merely bowed politely. "Congratulations, Mrs. Bradley. Mr. Bradley."

Mr. Bradley was beaming. Lydia Bradley's expression was harder to interpret, but Darcy had no wish to take the time to do so. He excused himself and left.

* * *

Darcy's missive made it to Tullow in good time. Grégoire looked at the date in the post office and noted that he had opened the box almost three months ago, and put down payment for another month without hesitation. He had spent the day in town, but not shopping for groceries. Unfortunately he found no jewelers to his taste, and had to send out for information from elsewhere. That did not dampen his mood as he turned to the house. 

The sun was still up and dinner was on the table, but he did not find her waiting for him. He checked the bedroom, but still nothing. Eventually he found a note on the nightstand. It passed by his first look because he was unaccustomed to him. In very scratchy handwriting, Caitlin had written,

_In te roen _

Curious more than worried, he headed out through the path in the woods, the shortcut to the church ruins with the mosaic of St. Patrick. There he found her, leaning against the old stone, a shawl over her shoulders. "Caitlin," he said, immediately noting her red eyes. "What is it?"

"I – I don't know." She did not protest when he sat down beside her. There was just enough room for the two of them in that little shelter – them and St. Patrick. "I'm shuk."

"What scared you?" He knew what really scared her, but he wanted to know what set her off.

"It kicked."

This did not shock or alarm him. "It did?"

She nodded.

He put his hand over her belly. She was now in her sixth month. "Did it do it once or – "

"It stopped. But I mean, it did it."

"Caitlin," he said, "that's wonderful." He laughed. "It's wonderful."

"It's still scary." Her voice was weak. "I don' know if I can do dis."

"Of course you can."

She shook her head. "Not alone."

Part of him was almost offended. "You're not alone; you know that. I won't leave you." He kissed her forehead. "Caitlin, I love you. I am not leaving you."

She put her head down so he couldn't see her face. "I shouldn'a got yeh involved. I'm so sorry." She was crying again. "So sorry."

"Shh, you don't have to be – "

"I shouldn'a let yeh do all t'ese nice things for me, I shouldn'a let yeh get attached – "

"Caitlin – "

"But I love yeh," she said, picking her head back up. "I love yeh so much. I can't let yeh go."

He took her hand, the one she was trying to cover her face with, and kissed it. "You don't have to let me go. I am not trying to leave."

She shook her head. "Don' say it. I know yeh want ta. Please don't. Don't make it worse."

He nodded, even if he didn't really understand. He certainly had his suspicions. They had been together for months, she was increasingly due, and they were devout Catholics, so the word _marriage_ didn't really have to be uttered before it was being thought of by both parties. Still, they hadn't said anything, not in words.

"You're shivering," he announced. "It's not good – for the child or for you." Without allowing her to stop him, he picked her up, a feat he could still manage to some degree, and carried her back to the house by sheer force of will. He tucked her into bed and brought her some fresh milk. "Drink." She obeyed him, but otherwise was silent.

By the evening, as he went about making himself supper, she emerged from the bedroom, looking more composed. "Sorry."

"You don't have to be."

"I got rattled – I don't know." She looked at him with a weak smile as he ran his hand through her hair. "I don' deserve yeh."

"I would say the same," he answered, sitting down across from her. "If you really want me to leave, then say so. It will hurt, but I'll do what is right. But I won't leave unless you push me. I love you too much for that."

She said nothing, but squeezed his hand.

* * *

"Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It has been two weeks since my last confession." Grégoire crossed himself and immediately began, not looking through the screen, even though he knew very well who the priest was. They rarely talked person-to-person; it was too awkward. "I have decided to ask Caitlin to marry me." 

"Dis is a pure gran' step, me sun."

He sighed. "I don't like the circumstances. It should be a happy time, but she's increasingly ill from her condition. Her emotions are everywhere. We haven't spoken the words and yet she begs me not to ask and I know exactly what she means. Then she tells me she loves me, and I know she means it."

The priest did not hold back. "Why yer tink she is confused? yer 'av toyed wi' 'er emoshuns for months nigh."

"Father, I would never – "

"Yer tell 'er yeh love 'er?"

He turned to the lattice that kept the priest from him, his voice near anger. "Yes. Every day."

"An' ter yeh continue ter nu 'er carnally, even in 'er condishun?"

"Yes."

"An' yeh continue ter provide for 'er. In every way yer are 'er 'usban' except under Jaysus. Dat step yer seem reluctant ter take."

"I just said I would take it!" he shouted, then stopped in horror, and crossed himself. "Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. I just yelled at a man of the cloth." It lightened the air just enough for the conversation to continue. "Is this what love is? This torrent of emotions?"

"So many people 'av said, me sun."

"I wanted this to be happy. I didn't plan it, but I suppose in the back of my mind, I wished that the time that I choose to take a wife to be the happiest moment of my life – and yet I am also so confused."

"Den ye must truly be in love," said the priest. It was one of the most clever things he had said in their relatively short but complex association. "Yeh will recall the story of Jacob and the angel."

"Yes, of course. He fought with him and won, and earned the name Israel."

"Yes. n' yer man wept, as well. 'is life ter dat point wus av doubt, for stealin' 'is brother's birthright by trickin' 'is owl lad an' den runnin' away. But he wept not whaen he wus on de road ter redempshun, but at de final moment, whaen he physically wrested wi' 'is emoshuns through de aingayle, an' prevailed. So G-d blessed 'imself an' from 'is seed came de twelve tribes av israel, an' from de tribe av Judah, de ma av our Lord Jaysus bleedin Chroist," he said. "Doubt an' de despair dat follows it whaen yer dwell on it too long withoyt actin' is a failure, but it can be reversed an' overcum, an' den yer truly becum yer paddy G-d intends yer ter be."

Grégoire swallowed this information, silent for a few moments as he did so. It did not dismiss all of his emotions, or any of them, but it made his path clear. "I think I understand." He leaned forward. "If I ask, and she says no, what will I do then?"

"'av feth in christ an' hill show yer de way," the priest said. "Say ten Hail Mary's fer de sin of fornication. Bejasus bless yeh, me sun."

"Thank you, Father. Go with G-d."

He did not linger. He said his prayers and left the church. When he returned home, he had no more questions. He only had a beautiful woman with dinner waiting.

* * *

Caitlin's emotions evened out again when she became accustomed to the baby's kicking, even when it disturbed her sleep. Grégoire laughed as he put his hand over her and felt it. "I think this child will be doing a lot of walking. Or dancing." 

The next Sunday he went to church and prayed. On Monday, after early Mass, he went to Tullow to pick up the ring he had ordered. It was a gold band with emeralds set in it so they looked sewn in like the knots he had seen on the old crosses of Monasterboice. "I'll take it," he said, and put the box in his pocket.

It was a long way back from Tullow. He stopped on the road for _None_ prayers, and hoped to be home in time for Vespers, which were followed by their supper. It was summer and the days were long, so he did not worry about light. The fields thinned out and the forest became thicker, until at last he came upon the house.

He did not smell the smells of dinner cooking. The fire was not even going. The place was a mess, as if it had been torn apart, and he stepped inside and set down it bag in shock. He barely had a moment to react to being grabbed by a strong set of hands and hurled against the wall, which was enough to knock him down to his knees, but not onto the floor entirely. The hulk of a man backed away.

"Who are you and what have you done with Caitlin?" Grégoire demanded.

"Yeh must be the one keepin' 'er all happy wit' yer fancy gifts. I'm not the best'a men, but yer scum!"

Grégoire grabbed the table to help stabilize himself. He was nearly a head shorter than this man, and had never struck a man in his life. He would not win in a fight – not a physical one, anyway. "You have not answered my question. Who are you?"

"Caitlin? Yeh want ta tell 'im who I am?"

Caitlin emerged from the bedroom. To Grégoire's horror, her clothes were torn, some pieces bloodied, and her face was red and swollen. "Please jus' let 'im go."

The man had red hair like fire and his personality was similar – easily brought to the peak of destruction. "Yeh tell 'im who I am!"

Grégoire looked at her as she came forward, visibly taking, to take the man's side, but not to touch him. Her voice was barely a whimper as she said, "He's me 'usband."

... Next Chapter - The Unmentionable Thing  



	31. The Unmentionable Thing

Manner of Devotion

by DJ Clawson

"_Everybody likes to go their own way--to choose their own time and manner of devotion."_

_Jane Austen, Mansfield Park_

Author's Note: My policy: Update twice a week or when a chapter reaches 5-10 comments, whichever comes first.

I think cliffhangers are mean. This was a big one. Here's the new chapter anyway. And something to think about: A bunch of people commented no Caitlin feeling guilty in earlier chapters. This one kinda puts it into perspective, doesn't it?

Warning: Accents ahead.

* * *

Chapter 31 - The Unmentionable Thing 

"It's not possible," Grégoire said. Stunned was a minor understatement in describing his reaction.

Mr. MacKenna grabbed Caitlin by the arm so hard she cried out. "Why don't yeh tell yer rich lover de truth?"

Caitlin waved, but he did not release her arm, and eventually she raised her terrified eyes to face Grégoire, "I – 'tis me husband. He tol' me he didn't want anoder mouth ta feed, but I wouldn' do it."

"An' what did yeh do, Mrs. MacKenna?"

"Ran away," she whispered, but loud enough for them all to hear.

"And?"

"Stole de money ta do it."

Mr. MacKenna was still angry, but he did cast a triumphant glare at Grégoire, still backed against the wall.

"Caitlin," he stuttered, "your family – "

"Died wi' me brah'der, whaenI wus twelve. I didn' have anybody – 'cept Neil."

"Normally I'd be mighty inclined ta quid da man who's been fecking me wife inta the ground," Neil MacKenna said, "but I'll make an exception dis time. Now go runnin' back ta England or wherever dey make cheatin' fecks."

Grégoire wanted to apologize – legitimately, it was needed – but he looked again at the beaten, sobbing form of Caitlin, swallowed, and said, "I will not let you take her."

"_What?_"

"I said I will not let you take her." He stood up straighter. "I understand now she is your wife and I respect that, and I will never touch her again, but if you treat her and the child this way – "

"'s gonna sell the baby," Caitlin whimpered.

"Shut yer bake" her husband said, and struck her. This, Grégoire would not stand for. Not in the place he had come to think of his house, or any house for that matter. He tried to come between them, which only earned him a smack on his face hard enough to knock him to the ground. MacKenna released his wife long enough to take a knife from the kitchen counter and drive it into Grégoire's arm, pinning him to the wall. Grégoire wasn't sure what bothered him more – his cry or Caitlin's own.

"Yeh don' come afta 'er," MacKenna said. "Yeh leave with yer loife, English."

In what seemed like a blur to Grégoire, the MacKennas left. He remembered only the pleading, apologetic look on Caitlin's bruised face, and the tissue she dropped on the floor as she left.

It was not until they were gone that he was able to pull the knife out, not so much because it was lodged in him but because it was lodged in the wooden wall. He set it on the ground and pulled up his shirt. The wound wasn't bad – just a pierce through the layer of flesh on his upper arm, barely more than a graze compared to what he had experienced. He pulled himself up with his good arm and scrambled for a piece of cloth. Eventually he removed the window dressing and tore off a length, wrapping it tightly around his arm to try and stop the bleeding. The pain in his arm and the sting on his face was not nearly as bad as the ache in his heart, just beginning to set in.

No. He needed to concentrate. That was what Darcy would do. He needed to find a surgeon to sew him up, and then he had to follow them. He looked around at the looted room. All of the good items were gone. As he stepped over it, he remembered the tissue, and picked it up. It was not a tissue – it was a scrap of paper.

_dreser _

He stumbled to the bedroom, which had also been ransacked. The mattress was even overturned. On the dresser, in a pile of things apparently deemed worthless – his clothing and the like – he found a note scribbled so quickly it was barely readable.

_Grégoire_ (He had taught her to spell his name correctly)

_Im so sory. i lovd you. it was to hard to sey. _

_Dublin east. talbot stret. thre sevin. _

He knew if he gave into his emotions, he would lose too much time. Instead he swallowed them best he could, stuffed his bag full of all the things he thought he needed, and left, Caitlin's note clutched to his chest.

* * *

"Mr. Gregory!" 

Even though the walk had not been far, Grégoire collapsed at the O'Muldoons' door, one hand clutching the bleeding arm. Fortunately Mr. O'Muldoon caught him in time, and helped him to a seat at their table.

"I – I need a surgeon," he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. A glass of whiskey was set before him and he did not hesitate to take a good gulp. "It's small but the bleeding won't stop."

"Yer know who attacked yer?"

He didn't want to look at either of their expressions when he said it, so he just looked at the table. "Caitlin's husband." He sighed. Now that he was sitting, and panic was not giving him strength, he was starting to fade – not from blood loss, which by his standards was relatively minor, but from emotional exhaustion. "I didn't know."

"'snot right," Mrs. O'Muldoon said. "We woulda told yeh, if we'd known."

"I know."

They didn't ask him any further questions. Mr. O'Muldoon instead announced he was leaving for another farm, where he knew he could borrow a horse that could get him to Tullow.

"I was – I was robbed," Grégoire said. "I cannot pay right now, but I ... have money. In Dublin."

"'sall right, Gregory. Ya jest rest."

She put a blanket over him because he was shivering, and he finished the whiskey and had another glass. He was nodding off into a sad, comfortable haze when the surgeon arrived. Being sewn up was enough to properly wake him, but it was quick and clean. As the O'Muldoons paid the surgeon, Grégoire began to remove his paper and writing implements from his satchel.

"Oh, no, Mr. Gregory, yeh should rest – "

"I have to write – write my brother," he said, "to meet me in Dublin. I'm going after her."

"Gregory," Mr. O'Muldoon said, laying a strong hand on his shoulder, "I cannot even imagine what yer goin' through, but she's a married woman."

"I know," he replied calmly as he opened the ink jar. "I know I can't –" He felt the oncoming torrent of tears, but swallowed them back. "Even so, Mr. MacKenna is going to kill or sell the baby and maybe kill her in the process. I will find some way to protect her." He crossed himself. "G-d help me."

It took him over an hour to write the letter. It was rather brief, but his mind wandered, and once the tears began, it was hard to continue. He hoped what he wrote would be at all comprehensible. After many blots from tears and ink stains, he folded the letter, and requested a candle to melt the wax. He barely had the energy to stamp the Darcy symbol into the soft seal. "For tomorrow's post; I may oversleep it."

Mr. O'Muldoon took it with some obvious reservations, but not enough to stop him from holding his tongue as his wife escorted their tired, wounded, and tipsy guest into one of the children's rooms, where he was given their bed for the night. "Compline," he said to no one in particular. "Oh G-d, Compline." But the words didn't come. "_In te Domine speravi..._" ("_In thee, O Lord, I have hoped..._")

Beyond that, he had nothing left in him.

* * *

Elizabeth Darcy knew something was wrong before anyone else in Pemberley knew outside of the two people in the study. She knew before Mrs. Reynolds, still sharp as a tack at her age, managed to swing by with a concerned look to indicate, _Maybe you should go check on your husband_. Even though Elizabeth was upstairs, trying to convince Cassandra to settle down for a nap, she knew she had to get to her husband before he was forced to come to her. It was better that way. 

She opened the door to the study to find him discussing pounds with his steward, who was still seated as Darcy paced anxiously by the window. Seeing her, he said, "Five thousand, it is. I need it by the end of the day. I do not care how you come to acquire it." That was a nod for the steward to leave. He forced a smile at his wife. "No one in this family is ever permitted to leave Britain proper again. Travel is nothing but trouble."

"Is he – "

"His letter," he said, holding up a torn, ink-stained letter with the Darcy seal still attached to one edge. "He is as well as can be expected." Clearly, nothing would offer explanation but the letter itself, so he handed it to her and returned to the window, staring out at the rolling hills of Pemberley as Elizabeth sat down to read.

_Dearest Brother, _

_I have not the time or strength to spend on a proper explanation for my unforgivable actions. I plead only for your assistance despite what I have done. I have not the wits or experience to complete this mission without you. _

_As you know, I have been living outside Tullow for three months now, but not in any kind of spiritual retreat. I came in my travels upon a woman who was not only starving, destitute, and with child all alone, but the most beautiful creature I have ever seen. She told me (_words crossed out_) she said her family had thrown her out and the father of the child had abandoned her when she refused to (_word crossed out, ink blot) _end it. Her name is Caitlin. _

_I have never been in love before. I did not know the symptoms, other than the physical ones _(tear stain)_ which I shall not elaborate _(crossed out word)_ here. I Confessed my sins and the priest said to marry her expeditiously. I was more hesitant to enter into the eternal union of marriage if _(large blot)

_if I was not sure. She was only three months along when I met her. I gave her every attention even when she asked for nothing. When _(large crossed out sentence, some reference to kicking)_ we came to an understanding of our love, I went to buy her a ring. _

_The day it arrived, I returned home _(tear stain)_. Yes, I do mean home, I considered it my home. There was a man there who identified himself as Mr. Neil MacKenna, her husband. In the time since I left and returned he had already beaten her to the point where she was _(crossed out word)_ bruised beyond recognition. When he pressed her, she told me everything. She had no family. They had _(tear stain)_ died years before. She married Mr. MacKenna but he did not want the child, so she stole his money and ran away. She could not bear to tell me. She left a note saying she loved me too mu – _(large blot, lots of crossed out words, water stains)

_I cannot say it. To return to the moment, he made to strike her again for some perceived insult and I tried to get between them. He stabbed me in the arm _(_only a graze, I assure you, now sewn_)_ and left me pinned to the wall, taking his wife _(much underlining) _with him. He said he would kill me if I followed. _

_I can have no intentions for her. She is a married woman and I, once a monk, am now just an adulterer. I suppose that I did not know has some relevance, but I have _(blot) _no time for that now. She said he is going to sell or kill the baby when it is born. He may kill her. The part of me that remains a good Christian cannot let that happen. Perhaps we could pay him to separate from her? I have faith you will think of something. _

_I will be in Dublin. She left his address behind. I taught her to write. I will be staying at . Please write me at Box or find me there. _

_No, I will not come home until I have seen her to safety. I am sorry, but in response to your question, I WILL NOT LISTEN TO REASON. _

_This Poor Sinner _

_Grégoire _

She looked up from the letter, her own eyes not particularly dry. "When are you leaving?"

"As soon as I have what I think will be enough money freed from his account. Tonight should be long enough. If not, then tomorrow morning."

"Should I write Georgiana? He doesn't mention her."

"I don't particularly care to guess his frame of mind when he wrote this," he said, hesitating. "What do you think?"

Even Elizabeth, after many years of marital felicity with her husband, could not believe the words that had just come from his mouth. But this was a woman's realm – he could not divine how his sister would think of this, though no doubt she would be sympathetic. There was no way not to be. Grégoire had been wronged by the woman he loved, and she had been wronged by the man who controlled and owned her, for all legal purposes. She could only begin to imagine his heartbreak. "I think she should be told as soon as possible."

He just nodded. He was trying to focus on the task at hand – getting to Dublin as quickly as possible. He fell into methodical planning when he could not bear the emotional consequences of doing otherwise. Grégoire was right – Darcy was good at getting things done, even things that seemed impossible. "In all likelihood, the husband is sufficiently poor that he can be tempted to send his wife away to raise the child elsewhere for the right amount of money. We would have to hire a protector to make sure it happened – it could not be Grégoire. Even he must know that."

"There is absolutely no way that the marriage could end?"

"My understanding of Catholic law is that we would have to find sufficient evidence that the marriage was falsely done or incestuous. Of course, I suspect it was neither, or Grégoire would have said so. No, they are married until one of them dies." He paused. "I must get to my brother."

"Darcy, you know he wouldn't – "

"I know. But he would put himself in harm's way for her – he's already done so."

"Do you wish me to go?"

He stopped in his pacing. He seemed to be considering it. "Dublin is not far by boat. In all likelihood, it will be a financial exchange and we will leave. If I need you, I will write for you."

They exchanged looks.

"I will take a pistol this time," he said. "I'll take two."

* * *

"So why is he going to Ireland?" 

"I don't know," Geoffrey sat, plucking up the grass in front of them as they sat on the hill. From there, he could see his father riding away on his horse, westbound. "Something about Uncle Grégoire."

"_Of course_ it's Uncle Grégoire," Georgie said. "Who else do we know in Ireland?" She repositioned her shawl, which protected her dress from the morning dew. "Is that what it means to be master of Pemberley? You have to always be abroad, rescuing relations?"

"Apparently."

* * *

Grégoire was staying at one of the best hotels in Dublin, apparently aware that his brother would prefer nothing less. Grégoire was staying under the Darcy name, perhaps for his own safety. Hopefully he had said the name to the jealous husband, but that was unlikely. 

To Darcy's surprise, as he entered the hotel suite, Grégoire was neither in intense prayer or openly sobbing. He sat in the armchair, the bottle of fine whiskey untouched beside him. Darcy had never seen him with a real beard, the kind a man grew out and trimmed properly, but apparently he had been growing one during his stay on the Emerald Isle. It made him look older, but what made him truly aged was the look around his eyes, as if he had cried until he had nothing left in him and was now just a shell of a man, clutching his rosary. His clothing was clean but unchanged. He was worn out in other ways. "Brother –,"

"Grégoire," he said as they embraced. "I came as soon as I could."

"Thank you." There was something strangely calm about Grégoire. Perhaps he was just out of other emotions. "My arm is healing. The stitches can come out early next week. He only grazed me."

"Thank G-d."

Grégoire crossed himself. So he had some faith left.

Darcy had only a few bags but they were brought up and dinner was ordered. The stew that arrived was inedible but Grégoire didn't seem to mind. Neither of them spoke, Darcy not sure which topic to breach first and Grégoire lost in his own thoughts.

It was the younger brother who broke the silence. "I bought her a ring." He put it down on the table, like it was hot to the touch. Darcy picked it up.

"It's beautiful," he said, at a loss for anything otherwise. It seemed very fitting for an Irish lass. "What do you want me to say? That it will go well on someone else's finger?"

"I don't know. I don't know anything." He looked down. "I went to Confession. The priest – a priest here – he said I should say prayers and give to the poor in penance for my sins. But I've always done that. And I refuse -," He paused, choking up a bit. It seemed he hadn't exhausted his tears after all. "I know it was a great sin, but that doesn't make what it was at the time any less wonderful. I cannot feel sorry for something I do not feel sorry about."

"You didn't know," Darcy said. "She did not tell you."

But Grégoire did not seem to want to be comforted. Darcy reflected: had he wanted someone around while he fell into the bottle after Elizabeth's rejection of his initial proposal? The only reason he sobered up at all was to keep a good face in front of his sister and not let Pemberley go to ruin while his heart quietly lay broken. No, he had come here for a purpose, to help Grégoire do his real penance – to save this woman he loved from her perceived doom (or at least determine if it was real).

Darcy fell back on his habit of being brutally honest. "I can find no words to comfort you. There are none for a man with a broken heart," he said. "But on this mission, I can help you."

"That," Grégoire said, "is all I need."

Next Chapter ... The Business at Hand


	32. The Business at Hand

Manner of Devotion

by DJ Clawson

"_Everybody likes to go their own way--to choose their own time and manner of devotion."_

_Jane Austen, Mansfield Park_

Author's Note: My policy: Update twice a week or when a chapter reaches 5-10 comments, whichever comes first.

Warning: Accents ahead.

* * *

Chapter 32 – The Business at Hand 

For two days Darcy staked out the East district. It was near the docks so most of the people were workers, and accustomed enough to a wealthy Englishman walking through, though he said little with his distinct accent. Grégoire's address was confirmed – there was a Mr. MacKenna living in an apartment complex on Talbot Street, a dockworker and handyman currently a step away from the workhouse (a description which matched most of the men in the area). His wife was in residence, but had not been seen or heard from in days.

Grégoire was sensible enough to understand that he ought not to go on the trips. Darcy did convince him to shave, but they would not risk a chance encounter with the man who had previously assaulted him. Pressing charges would be difficult, especially with MacKenna as the cuckolded husband and Grégoire's history as a wayward man of the cloth. Even with the Union Jack flying over their heads on the pole above the hotel entrance, this was not England. Grégoire went to Mass, and spent most of the day in the cathedral, as if he was returning to his normal self. It was a strange comfort to Darcy. This Grégoire was at least familiar to him.

As he sat in the tavern across from the docks, sipping awful beer and pretending to read the paper, he mused on all of this.

"I thought you were the great reconnaissance expert. Might as well write, 'I'm a wealthy, spying bastard' on your forehead," said the man sliding in next to him. "And don't start with the Lord business."

"Kincaid," he said, not frowning but not smiling as William Kincaid joined him. "Is Georgiana here?"

"Came as soon as we heard. She's with her brother. So, have you seen the woman in question?"

"Not yet. I only have her description. She is not leaving the flat, which considering her condition is no surprise."

"Not everyone cares about propriety, Darcy."

"Did I give my sister away to an earl or not?"

William just smiled at him. "So, landlord?"

"Lives on the first floor. Just the wife. Husband is dead, I think."

He nodded. "Did you talk to her?"

"She said they arrived last week and Mrs. MacKenna has not been out since."

"Not even for groceries?"

Darcy shook his head.

"I don't like it."

"Neither do I."

"You go forward with your plan," Kincaid said. "I will be your back."

"That may prove difficult. They did rob my brother, but I doubt they spent the money on a chandelier."

* * *

When Darcy returned to the suite, Georgiana did not rush to him as she used to do. She was in an embrace with her own little sibling, who was sobbing. He said nothing, slipping in silently. Whether they noticed his presence or not mattered nothing to him. That Grégoire had been able to unload his feelings on someone was a relief; that it was not himself sparked something he had not felt in a long time: sibling jealousy. But he was the responsible one, wasn't he? The one that others turned to when they needed help? He mulled it over with a glass of Irish whiskey that he shared with Lord Kincaid. 

"We should be done with it," Darcy said. Two days had been painful enough, and now that they had the location confirmed, they had no reason not to move, if they were going to at all. Grégoire was willing to pay anything, but Darcy would do the negotiation so that the numbers did not begin in the thousands. MacKenna had probably never seen a hundred-pound bill in his life.

"Has she ever seen you without whiskers?" Darcy asked as Grégoire emerged from prayer, dressed in a white shirt and vest. He looked almost normal, not the penitent monk who had come home from Spain.

"When I first came to the area, yes."

Darcy nodded.

Georgiana gave both her brothers and her husband a good luck kiss good-bye. "You will be fine," she assured Grégoire. Of course, assuming he did not put himself into harm's way, he would not be in danger.

The Darcy brothers set out just as it was getting dark. Kincaid would meet them later; that was part of the plan that Darcy dearly hoped would not be necessary. He also hoped they would not be robbed on the way there, as that would be exceedingly unfortunate (except for the thief, who then would retire to a private isle in the north). They took a coach down Talbot Street; there was no reason to conceal themselves further as foreigners. They were not stopped at the entrance to the flat, or even on the stairs. The walls were very thin on every floor and on the floors of the building next door, which was no less than a foot away, but the noises were all indistinguishable from each other.

The door that belonged to Mr. and Mrs. MacKenna had no sounds coming forth from it, but light came out from under the door. The stairway was only lit with moonlight through the broken window, and they paused in front of the door. Grégoire crossed himself and nodded as Darcy removed his hat and knocked on the door with his walking stick.

"What'yeh want?"

"To speak to Mrs. MacKenna."

The door opened so hard it slammed against the inside wall, and Darcy had a pistol pointed at his face. A very small one, but a pistol nonetheless. Grégoire remained in the staircase, out of view.

Darcy betrayed nothing but utter calm and confidence. "If you shoot me, you'll hang. If you do not, you will be a very rich man."

The man facing him – red-haired and red-eyed, slouching in an intimidating manner in his soiled workman's clothing – was not quite twice his size, but it was apparent who would win in a brawl. Still, Darcy didn't move for his own pistol, plainly tucked into his belt, or anything else. He stayed perfectly still and let the logic sink in.

Neil MacKenna finally lowered his pistol, but did not put it away. "Who're you?"

"Mr. Darcy," he said, "of Pemberley and Derbyshire."

"Never 'eard av either o' dem places."

"Fortunately, I am not here to discuss them. I am here to discuss your wife."

"I'm not runnin' a brothel," MacKenna said, backing up just enough to let Darcy a step or two into the room. There was no evidence of the wife in the immediate room, but he saw there was a side room with light beneath its door as well. MacKenna was not as slow as he looked, at least mentally. "I'll bite. Where'sa bugger whose been feckin me wife?"

"Wary of being stabbed again," Darcy said.

MacKenna put the pistol down on the parlor table, or what was supposed to be a parlor table but was dented and worn and probably a century old. "Fine. On me honor."

"On your honor," Darcy repeated, as he heard Grégoire emerge behind him, not standing nearly as tall or as proudly as his brother. MacKenna watched him, but did not move against him. "Now. Quite obviously, we are here to make you a deal."

"I towl yeh, she is not for sale."

"But you would agree to a separation from your wife, perhaps. She would live somewhere else – in the west, maybe. Wherever she likes. And you would stay here. And I would make it worth your while, and we will all be happy."

"An' 'er fella 'appy too, aye?"

"Sir," Grégoire said, "I swear under G-d in Heaven that I did not know that Mrs. MacKenna was your wife, or anyone's wife. The sacrament of marriage is sacred. I would not willingly violate it again." He swallowed. "I would never see her again. She would live separately from both of us. You could even employ a guard to make sure I do not violate my oath."

"And I would employ a guard to make sure you do not violate yours," Darcy said to Mr. MacKenna.

"Sounds dear," MacKenna said. The fish was considering the bait.

"Quite. And for the sake of Christian charity – what, with you giving up seeing your adored wife and future child – I would not have you in poverty." Darcy carefully reached into his coat, and removed the first packet of bills, laying them carefully on the parlor table beside them. "Five hundred pounds."

MacKenna did the math in his head – or gave the appearance of doing so. "For 'er, maybe, a wee house. But dat wud leave me here, in dis shitehole."

Darcy had no hesitation. "Of course." He removed another packet. "A thousand. For each."

"But yeh're forgettin' the kid. Kids're expensive little buggers until dey're old enough fer da chimneys. And that's a few years. And if I decide to have some of me own? _Sacrament_ of marriage an' all, we're all men 'ere."

Darcy nodded as if everything this man said was reasonable, and removed another, larger packet. "Two thousand for good Christian piety."

"Whattaya know about Christian piety, English? Yer _kings_ get divorced. Yeh gotta lot of makin' up ta do."

He rolled his eyes and looked at Grégoire, who did not even have to nod. "Five thousand pounds." He held up three more packets of a thousand in hundred-pound notes. "More money than you will ever see in your life, not if you worked the best job in the city from dawn 'til dusk, Mr. MacKenna." This time, he did not put it on the table. He held it up for MacKenna to drool at. "I want to see Mrs. MacKenna."

"What?"

"Well, I have to know she's in good health before I put down money for her long life in solitude."

MacKenna looked at both of them, and crossed his arms. "Six thousand."

"Perhaps you do not know the definition of 'see' – "

"Six thousand. Yeah, so, a thousand to see me wife." He nodded in the direction of Grégoire. "I know he'll pay it. Yer lucky I'm not chargin' fer both eyes."

Even this was no small sum – except to Grégoire, who just nodded.

"Six thousand sounds," Darcy said, putting the money on the table and offering his hand.

MacKenna looked at the gloved hand, spit in his own, and shook it. "Done." He immediately picked up the bills and began stuffing them into his shirt.

"Not quite," Darcy reminded him. "Your more immediate part of the bargain."

"_Caitlin!_"

The woman who emerged was much as Grégoire described her, good and bad. Wearing a filthy blue dress that did not even attempt to disguise her condition, she emerged barefoot from what was likely the bedroom. Her hair, a reddish-blond, was long and straight and completely down in a way that probably made her look younger than she was. Grégoire said that she had told him she was twenty. Her face was swollen on one side, and she crossed her arms as if she was shivering, trying to make it to her husband's side. It was no small feat, with so much tension in the room. She had not looked at Darcy except in passing; Grégoire was her only concern and his with her.

"Mrs. MacKenna," Darcy said, bowing to her. She was, after all, a lady.

"Mrs. MacKenna." Grégoire's voice cracked as he bowed.

MacKenna grabbed her by her very thin and frail arm. "If yer excuse me, I'd loike a moment ter make sure me struggle an' strife understands everythin'..." She whimpered as he pulled her along to the bedroom. Darcy could almost feel Grégoire tensing beside him.

When Caitlin MacKenna was gone from sight, her husband turned back to Darcy and tossed him one of the five hundred packets of notes. "Ta be fair – fer de child."

Darcy barely had time to piece together what he meant by that before he heard the scream. Where was Kincaid?

Grégoire, of course, rushed heedlessly forward to the doorway before Darcy could stop him, only to face MacKenna turning to him with his pistol drawn. "You can buy me woife, but not me child!"

The crash of the window was what startled MacKenna, and his shot at Grégoire went totally astray, hitting the wall instead as William Kincaid leapt into the room in a swathe of tartan. "In feckin hell – "

"Feckin hell is where you're going," Kincaid said, but did not run him through with his claymore. Instead he bashed him on the head, hard enough to knock him out. Grégoire was just fast enough to avoid the gigantic Irishman crashing down in front of him, and he leapt right over the body and into the room.

"Handle him!" Darcy told Kincaid, and entered the bedroom to find Grégoire over Caitlin, who was still screaming.

"Shhh," he told her as he slowly drew the knife that had been stuck into her stomach. "It will be all right – "

"Feck no Grégoire, it will not be fecking all right!" she screamed. Darcy was impressed that she actually pronounced his name correctly.

He turned to Kincaid. "I'll get a surgeon. MacKenna?"

"If he rises, I will make him regret it."

Darcy nodded and bolted out the door.

This had not been the plan.

* * *

When he returned with the surgeon and a constable, both the MacKennas were unconscious. Grégoire sat on the bed beside Caitlin MacKenna, pressing down on the wound in a desperate attempt to make it stop spouting blood. He was pushed aside by the surgeon and collapsed on the ground in exhaustion. "She is still breathing – " 

"What in the hell is this all about?" said the constable, who was far too calm for Darcy's liking. At least he was English. He turned to Kincaid, who only raised his sword.

"Lord Kincaid of Clan Kincaid, earl of -----shire," he said. "This man stabbed his wife and tried to shoot that man over there, Mr. Bellamont."

It was yet another bad stroke of luck that Mr. MacKenna chose that moment to return to consciousness, and this time Kincaid could not beat him back. He quickly backed down from whatever he was planning when he saw that only he was on the floor and disarmed, but he was also facing Kincaid, Darcy, and a man in uniform.

"What's all this?" the constable asked, rightfully, of the man who owned the apartment.

"These men – they came to take me wife!"

"That's not true!" Darcy said. "He agreed to a monetary transaction and separation from his wife – "

"Because your feckin friend seduced her! My wife!"

"Sir," Kincaid said, "this man has stabbed his wife and shot at my brother-in-laws for no more than a conversation."

"Is this true?" the constable asked MacKenna.

"I – I did try to shoot him," MacKenna said, pointing to Grégoire in the doorframe, "after he stabbed me wife! She's carryin' 'is child!"

"That's a lie!" Grégoire shouted. "You wanted to kill it!"

The constable's whistle brought them all to silence as his men stamped up the steps. By now most of the other houses had heard all the screaming and quieted down, quite obviously listening through the window, especially the family across from the apartment that had allowed Kincaid to jump through their own window to get to MacKenna's. "Men," the constable said, "take these two into custody." He gestured to MacKenna and Grégoire.

"_What!_" Darcy resisted the urge to shake this little man – this man that he had brought to arrest MacKenna – "That man is a liar! My brother has done nothing! You cannot lock him up for trying to save a woman's life!"

"A woman he made with child? Who wasn't his wife?" the constable said skeptically.

"That's not the story – please, just listen to me, and I will tell you everything, and Lord Kincaid will confirm – "

"'course you will," the constable said, apparently thinking himself a rather brilliant detective, "because he's your brother. Now I just want to talk to both of them and all of this will be sorted out – "

The only thing that kept Darcy from actually taking a swing at this man before him was Grégoire's voice. "Darcy! Don't!" He was not resisting as the officers shackled him. "Let it all come out. Just take care of _her_ now."

"I will not see you in a cell!"

"I lived in a cell," Grégoire said. "The truth will be sorted out. Just save her!" That was his last plea before they pulled him away.

"Come on, Darcy," Kincaid said, putting away his blade and tugging him on the shoulder. "The walls are thin as paper here. Everyone in the neighborhood heard us. We can gather enough witnesses to have Grégoire out by first light."

Only the distraction of Caitlin's scream as she woke was enough to shake him from his horrified stupor, and he did not care for the world it brought him into.

* * *

Grégoire's interrogation began immediately. A rather skilled confessor, he recalled everything in neat order, showing his wound from the earlier knife fight in the house near Tullow. Yes, he knew she was with child. No, he did not know she was married and had not touched her since he found out she was. He named all the people who had seen her abused by her husband and knew her story, and all those he had spoken to since he met her – names and locations, one after another. 

"You never told her what you were worth?" the constable said, appropriately astounded by the number. With interest from years he did not spend his fortune, Grégoire was worth about 220,000 pounds.

"Money is truly the root of all evil," he said, "if this is all it brings." Mercifully, they had allowed him to keep his rosary, and he ran his fingers through the beads the entire time he spoke. "I tried to buy her health when she was starving. I tried to buy her happiness when she was upset. I tried to buy her freedom when I found her enslaved to a man who said he wanted her child – his child – dead. And now I am in jail and she is, for all I know, dying. What has money brought me but misery?"

Everything that happened in Dublin, he explained. Their plan was as they said to MacKenna – they wanted him to agree to a separation, the only thing that would keep his hands off her and her future child, and they would pay anything for it to happen. In fact, had Mr. MacKenna not been so vengeful, he would have simply walked out the door a very wealthy man.

"And the Scot?"

"My brother-in-law was protection – in case something terrible happened." He tried to cross himself, but his shackles prevented him from doing it properly. "If she dies, you may as well lock me away, because my life is nothing."

When they were satisfied, they dropped him in a cell, different from his monastic cell only that it had bars, and he was chained to one of the walls. There he collapsed. There was a tiny window, and could see only the sunlight of morning, but there was no food for him.

"Forgive me, L-rd, for I have sinned," he said. "Most recently, I missed Vigils because I was being interrogated. But before that, I did terrible things, for which there is no accounting." That was how he began Lauds, the prayer for the sixth hour of the day, which he recited from heart on his knees before collapsing on the wooden board that served as a cot and slept. His body was relentless – he woke again for Terce and yet again for Sext. He thought maybe he would go through the entire monastic cycle before, as he was finishing his psalms, he heard boots against stone and the constable came around the bend, followed closely by Darcy, who lost his color upon seeing his brother. Grégoire absentmindedly realized he was still largely covered in Caitlin's blood.

"Mr. Bellamont," the constable said, "you are free to go, but are requested by the department not to leave Dublin proper until Mr. MacKenna's trial, as you will be called to witness."

"Of course, officer," he said. He couldn't believe how weak his voice sounded as the constable unlocked the heavy padlock, then the locks that held him to the wall. "I swear it."

Darcy helped him up. "She's alive," he whispered. Darcy was cleaner, but did not look much better beyond that. He looked profoundly tired. "She's lost the child."

It sunk in Grégoire's chest harder than any of his shackles. "Was it a boy or girl?"

"Does it matter?"

"_Was it a boy or a girl?_" He was surprised by the insistence of his own voice.

"Boy," Darcy said grimly. "She will likely live, but she will not have children again." He was now carrying his brother out, for the most part, as Grégoire had lost most of his strength just over those words.

"L-rd, what have I done?"

Without hesitation, Darcy answered, "You have saved her life."

Next Chapter ... The Promise


	33. The Promise

Manner of Devotion

by DJ Clawson

"_Everybody likes to go their own way--to choose their own time and manner of devotion."_

_Jane Austen, Mansfield Park_

Author's Note: My policy: Update twice a week or when a chapter reaches 5-10 comments, whichever comes first.

Warning: Accents ahead.

* * *

Chapter 33 – The Promise

From a certain perspective, Darcy felt it was fortunate that Grégoire was not able to be present for the events immediately following his arrest. They were devastating enough as they were in everyone's memory; he did not want that on his brother's mind as well.

The initial surgeon on call had merely stitched up Mrs. MacKenna to stop the bleeding. For a bit she seemed to recover as they gathered her things for her and transported her to the hotel, but by the time they reached their room, she had suspicious cramps. Fortunately Darcy had prepared for the worst and already found and had the card of the best surgeon in Dublin. When he arrived, two hours had passed and she was exhausted and nearly delirious, clinging to Georgiana's offered arm and screaming Irish curses that none of them could decipher.

The surgeon immediately pronounced the baby dead and her body in a pseudo-labor. This idea, Mrs. MacKenna did not take well, even though she must have expected it. She was tired, upset, and in great pain, but she was not a raving lunatic. She grabbed Darcy's hand and squeezed it so tight he was relieved it was the lame one. "Yeh take care'a Grégoire. Yeh promise me."

"He's my brother. Of course I will."

"_Yeh promise me!_" 

"I promise," he said softly.

In the background, the doctor was mixing up his concoction for pain, probably some cheap version of laudanum. She did not seem particularly aware, focused on Darcy. "I didna' mean fer him ta get involved. It jest _happened_."

"I know," he said, but probably not in the way that she thought he knew. This was not the first time Grégoire had gotten himself in over his head.

"I love 'im," she said. "I loved 'im. It wasn' right but I did."

He had less argument with how she felt about Grégoire and more with the massive deception over a period of months that had nearly cost him his life, but Darcy didn't say that. This was not the time to say that. "I will tell him."

The surgeon gave her a healthy dose of whatever was in the glass, and when that wasn't enough, he made her sip whiskey. No one had the authority to question him, but it did seem to knock her out. William Kincaid escorted his wife out of the room; she had every right to sit by a normal labor, but this was not a normal labor and the only thing in question was how badly it would end.

They sat in the sitting room of their suite and waited. Occasionally she would return to consciousness and wail, until the doctor found some way to knock her out again. They sat in silence because no one could think of anything to say.

At last the surgeon emerged and handed a bag to his assistant, who quickly left. "I've done the best I can."

"Will she live?"

"If she is fortunate, yes. I do not think she will bear children again – that part of her is too damaged."

Darcy just nodded, and paid the surgeon. He had to leave to begin collecting people to speak on Grégoire's behalf and submit his own statement, but he felt the need to at least see her first.

To his surprise, Mrs. MacKenna was awake, if barely, in the bed. The hotel would not be recovering the sheets. "It was a boy," she said with the remains of her voice.

"I am very sorry, Mrs. MacKenna."

"I felt 'im kick. We laughed about it – now it's gone." But she had no energy left even to cry. She just let the tears fall as they did. He briefly squeezed her hand, and excused himself to collect his brother.

* * *

It was nearly twelve hours later when he returned to the hotel. He had not slept at all since the previous morning, and Grégoire, obviously very little. Fortunately witnesses were not hard to gather – the family that had let Kincaid jump through their window were immediately questioned, as was the landlady about Mr. MacKenna's regular behavior (none of which spoke well of his character) and his shouting threats at his wife. There was also the matter that the knife was an old soldier's blade, from the war of 1812, in which he had fought. With the evidence stacking against the other suspect, Darcy convinced them to release his brother, and the two of them numbly returned to the hotel.

His instinct was to somehow get Grégoire cleaned up before Georgiana saw him, his clothing and hair still caked with dried blood, but Darcy was tired and that instinct occurred far too late to make any difference.

"How is she?" were Grégoire's first words to his sister, who all things considered, was taking the sight of him incredibly well.

"Resting. You heard about – "

"Yes."

Nothing else needed to be said. Kincaid offered his condolences, and Darcy had hot water and a tub brought up as fast as possible. In the changing room, they left Grégoire to himself, perhaps to find some peace in a tub of hot water.

* * *

With Grégoire safely released and Mrs. MacKenna out of danger, general exhaustion overtook the party, and somehow, clothed or at least with their outer layers removed, Darcy and the Kincaids fell into their separate beds.

Grégoire padded out of his room, clean and shaven, and back in his normal clothes. His fingers ran through the rosary beads as he crossed the parlor and slowly opened the door to Caitlin's room, bringing the light from the parlor in. She was pale and even from a distance he could see her strained features, contorted in pain even in sleep.

He was too distracted to pray, and he had no right to bless her. He turned to leave.

"I know yeh won't come in," she said, "and I am sorry – so sorry."

"I'm sorry, about the child," he said. "I think ... I think I understand why Saint Patrick pointed me to you."

"What?"

He looked away. It was so hard to look at her, even in her distressed state, and not see beauty. "I had to save your life. It cost you the child, and it broke my heart, but it saved you from him," he said. "I only wish I could dismiss my task and move on." _G-d help me, I still love you_. "I am sorry – I have to go." He could not stay alone with a married woman – a married woman he loved, and had loved, in every sense of the word.

"I love yeh," she said. "I can't not say it."

"I know," he replied, and left. As he padded barefoot back to his own room, his chest felt heavy. His limbs felt heavy. The weight of it all was just so terrible. The world turned dark around him, and he felt the same way.

* * *

As they waited for supper, Darcy composed a letter to Elizabeth, relating all of the events of the past days and explaining that they would likely be in Dublin for the duration of the trial. If it would be long, he would ask her to come. He had not made that assessment yet. He did not know the speed of the local courts here.

Grégoire was still sleeping, and their guest was being attended by a nurse. Georgiana joined him in the parlor, wearing a shawl of the same tartan Lord Kincaid had worn earlier. She kissed her brother's cheek and then sat down across from him. "What will happen, do you think?"

"Mr. MacKenna will either have a long sentence in Australia if the law is exceptionally kind, or he will hang." He did not mince words with her. He did not have the energy, and she was not a little girl anymore, even though she was still so much smaller than him.

"And Mrs. MacKenna will be a widow."

"I know." Because he had been considering it from the first moment of rational thoughts after the arrest. If MacKenna went to the gallows, Mrs. MacKenna could not possibly be expected to wear jet for very long. And then she would be available ... "I think Grégoire should return with us to England, after this is settled. Immediately."

"Brother! You are so cruel!"

"He needs distance to think," Darcy said.

"You do not approve of the marriage."

"I do not approve of the way their relationship came about," he said, though what she said was not untrue. While it was amazing that Grégoire was thinking of marriage at all, did it really have to be a barren Irish peasant girl? "It was all deceit."

They were speaking in hushed tones. "Not _all_ of it," she said. "Just one important detail."

"_Very_ important."

Georgiana smiled. "But think of what our relatives would think if he brought her home. Mrs. Maddox's head might have an apoplexy."

"Georgiana," he said sternly, but not all that sternly. "He needs time to think. If he is truly in a love that knows no end, he will merely sit in a stupor for a few months while she publicly mourns her husband and then rush back to her the moment he gets a chance. A man can only take so much heartbreak."

* * *

They sat in a state of frustrating limbo for nearly two weeks. Mrs. MacKenna was seen again by the surgeon, who was pleased with her recovery. Darcy stood in the room as he gave his pronouncement, but it obviously brought no comfort to the woman who had just lost her child and any chance of another one. She sat in despair on one end of the hotel suite and Grégoire the other, and neither of the two did meet. Grégoire could not visit the sickbed of a married woman. No one was going to enforce this; he enforced it himself. He went to Mass every day, and he prayed. He did little else. Darcy bought him books to tease him into occupying his mind, and both the Kincaids tried to make conversation with him, but he would have none of it. His stitches came out and the bruises on his face faded and he was pronounced a healthy man, to which he gave a sad smile and said nothing.

Since Mrs. MacKenna could not be moved, her account of the events of both nights in question – and all that had preceded it – was taken by the clerk for the judge as Mr. MacKenna sat in judgment. The twisted tale of the man who had killed his own unborn child to get back at his wife for cheating on him with a monk was the talk of the town, which made their isolation all the more unbearable, because none of them wanted any part of it. Darcy wrote his wife but did not ask for her to come; by the time she'd arrive, they might be ready to leave. After posting the letter he came to regret it; what would he give for one night with Elizabeth now?

At last Grégoire was called to testify before the magistrate rendered his decision. He was so utterly calm; it was as if he was in a trance. Maybe the events had cut some emotional nerve, because he was silent all the way to the crowded courthouse. Darcy escorted him and sat beside his brother in anonymity until Grégoire was called forth. "Mr. Grégoire Bellamont." The judge, being English and a former University student, spoke French and could pronounce his name. The crowd of rabble that had been following the case more closely than those actually involved hollered and hooted as Grégoire silently took his place before the judge.

His testimony was as his composure: numb and with barely any emotion. While Darcy was happy that Grégoire did not break into tears or emotional pleas in front of a crowd that would boo him and laugh at him even further than they already had, it bothered him to see his younger brother so distant. It also bothered him to notice some of Grégoire's hair had fallen out, on the top, but he hardly had time to think on that now. The only time Grégoire showed any emotion beyond looking dazed and drained was when he was told of all those who had testified to his good character, coming to Dublin of their own expense – the O'Muldoons, the priest from the church, many people in Tullow, and some people from Drogheda. Darcy turned his head at the sight of James MacGowan, a man he never expected to see again, now out of uniform and with an older couple that were clearly his parents. They came to see Grégoire, having already given their testimony to his charitable and pious character.

"Thank you, Mr. Bellamont. You may be seated."

The judge apparently did not need any time. Mr. MacKenna was called to stand before him as he donned the black cap over his massive wig. "Neil MacKenna, for the most heinous crimes of assaulting three people, one being your own wife of many years, with intentions to kill, and the murder of your own unborn child, I sentence you to be hanged at the gallows at noon tomorrow."

The gavel striking the wood was as if it physically struck Grégoire, who leaned on his brother for support. While Darcy had little (or no) sympathy for Mr. MacKenna, the cuckolded husband would now burn in hell, and that was no easy pill to swallow. The crowd was cheering and laughing, however, and the judge had to rap his gavel many more times to restore order so that Mr. MacKenna might be escorted back to jail.

"Your Honor," Grégoire said, and even though his voice was soft, it was heard. "Might I approach the bench?"

The judge looked at him skeptically. "You may, Mr. Bellamont. Be brief."

This was not anything Darcy had been informed of previously, but Grégoire was always surprising him. Grégoire passed the shackled MacKenna and whispered to the judge, who whispered back, apparently confused at what he had said. There was hardly an ear in the room that wasn't tuned in to try to hear them, but no one did. Grégoire stepped away, bowed to Mr. MacKenna in passing, and returned to his place in the rows beside his brother.

"By special request," the judge said, "Mr. MacKenna is to have a private execution in the prison. This court is adjourned."

Darcy looked at his brother, but Grégoire offered nothing in public, and they both were forced to focus on making a quick escape from the furious crowd, now denied their spectacle. It took a long time to restore order; the masses were still swarming and yelling as the brothers ducked into a carriage and began the ride back to the hotel.

Since Grégoire would not, Darcy broke the silence. "You were under no obligation to request such a thing."

"I am the guilty party in that I made him more of a spectacle than his crimes alone. He can hardly be expected to meet G-d with the sounds of the mob still ringing in his ears." He looked out the window of the carriage. "Everyone deserves one moment of peace in their life."

"Even you," Darcy said. Grégoire said nothing.

* * *

Mrs. MacKenna did not attend her husband's execution or his burial. She still could not sit up for long, much less leave her room. The news was delivered to her hours later by the priest who had administered final rites in the prison. He closed the door behind him when he spoke to her, but he delivered the news to the rest of them. "His Excellency the Bishop, upon reviewing the matter, feels that three months is an appropriate time of respectful mourning for the man to whom she was joined in matrimony."

They thanked him and he left. Now there were real arrangements for them to make. The widow MacKenna would live – her stitches came out only the day before – and what kind of life she would lead would be up to her, but Grégoire hesitated not a second to say he would pay for any arrangements she wanted, both for her mourning period and beyond. He did not, however, say this to Mrs. MacKenna. The plans were drawn up without her, and presented the next day with his notable absence.

Caitlin MacKenna, wearing a dressing gown died black, was sitting up, and nursing her aches with fine whiskey. "Is 'e really goin' back ta England?" was the first thing out of her mouth. Unlike Grégoire, she did not appear without emotion. In fact, the very opposite.

"That is between you and him," Darcy said, and presented her with an offer to set her up wherever she liked, with such and such number of servants, and an annual income from a larger (and generous) account. She gaped at the money. "...I," she broke off. "It's'all him, isn' it?"

"Do not think he is the only person who cares for your good health," Lord Kincaid said, carefully dodging the question.

"Fine. Just – take me outta Dublin. I 'ate dis place. I always 'ave."

They nodded. Darcy sent out a solicitor provided by the hotel, and a house was purchased in a small town on the coast south of the city. She deemed herself well enough to make the journey, and seemed insulted when they implied that she might not be. Darcy sighed and insisted that they would all have to see her there.

It was nearly a day's ride in two separate carriages. Georgiana, who had developed some kind of friendship with Mrs. MacKenna while attending her, assumed that responsibility alongside her husband. The Darcys rode in the second carriage.

If she was not tired and ill enough from the journey, Mrs. MacKenna nearly passed out at the sight of the house – modest by any of their scales, but what she announced to be a "feckin palace." A seat had to be brought for her to sit and recover herself before she could even go in.

Darcy and Grégoire did a quick inspection of the house the latter had purchased sight unseen. It was a fine house for its size. "She will consider this a luxury," he said. "She deserves some happiness." It was his longest speech since the trial.

"And you?" Darcy said, since Grégoire seemed to be in a talking mood as they stood in one of the empty bedchambers, looking out at the field. "Or have you contracted the Darcy curse and must be without emotion?"

Grégoire almost seemed to smile as he watched Mrs. MacKenna be attended by her servants on her new front lawn. "I came here to do something and I did it. By all logic, I should return and go on with my life." He sighed. "I suppose you will oppose this match."

"Her background is a little ... questionable." He had to say it. "She lied to you, Grégoire. I wouldn't dare say it was for your money. I don't doubt she had and still has emotions for you. But she was entirely remiss in divulging her real identity."

"Thank G-d she did not," Grégoire said, "or I might have missed her on my path." He turned to his brother, truly acknowledging for the first time. "Three months. Two, technically, and twenty-seven days."

"And you must give her a day to take off her mourning dress."

"I hardly think that takes a day. Maybe half, from what I've seen of your guests at Pemberley."

Darcy found himself laughing – at a joke. He could not remember when he had felt such joy at the very idea. "Before we say our good-byes – since you seem to be in such a mood, I will ask of you a question."

"Of course."

"What are you doing to your hair?"

Grégoire reached up to the growing bald spot on the top of his head. Even doing so dislodged hairs, and he took down a few strands. "I'm getting older, I suppose. Perhaps my grandfather Bellamont was bald." He shrugged. "I have many concerns. This is not one of them."

"As long as it's not on my side," Darcy said, unconsciously running his hands through his own hair, which despite being partially grey, was still very much in place.

* * *

"What will I do without yeh?"

Mrs. MacKenna had recovered and was standing not far from the water with Grégoire, alone with him for the first time since the night he returned from prison. "You could try knitting. Or sewing. Or painting china cups. Some fancy lady activities."

She took his hand and he did not resist. "Do I have ta keep sayin' I'm sorry or can we jest let it go?"

"I know you are," he said, and raised her hand to kiss it. "All things said I would not have seen it go any differently."

"Yer serious?"

"I would not chance that it would have been worse," he said. "We are all following G-d's path – I know that now. And as terrible as it is sometimes ... there are some moments that make it worth it." He let her arm go and removed his silver cross from his neck - the one he never removed, not even when bathing. Before she could say anything he put it over her head, where it got a bit lost in her black lace veils before finding its way to her neck. "I only give this away when I intend to reclaim it."

"So yer – "

He kissed her – and not on the hand. That stopped conversation for a moment. "Now I've ruined your reputation and must make amends by marrying you as soon as possible." They laughed together in relief. "Goodbye, Caitlin."

"Goodbye, Grégoire," she said, her voice wavering.

"Will you take me, even when I do come back?"

She grinned. "Even if yer bald by then."

Next Chapter ... Mourners


	34. Mourners

Manner of Devotion

by DJ Clawson

"_Everybody likes to go their own way--to choose their own time and manner of devotion."_

_Jane Austen, Mansfield Park_

Author's Note: My policy: Update twice a week or when a chapter reaches 5-10 comments, whichever comes first. Please note that I don't update on Friday nights or Saturday because of religious observance.

Warning: Accents ahead.

* * *

Chapter 34 - Mourners 

Sadly, Mrs. MacKenna was not the only one to wear jet that summer.

The Darcys had not been home a week (and were still deciding exactly what details of their trip they would explain to their larger family, and when) when Darcy entered his own study to read the day's mail to find Elizabeth weeping. She held up the letter, which to his surprise, was in Mr. Bennet's handwriting. "Mama," was all she said as she fell into her husband's arms. Little more than a year after her first stroke, Mrs. Bennet suffered another. This one felled her.

The Kincaids, fortunately, had already left and the Darcys could leave immediately without having to see them off. Darcy merely inquired of his brother if he wished to come and pay his respects to Mrs. Bennet, whom he had not known well, and Grégoire said he would. Darcy barely had time to order all the arrangements made for Elizabeth's wardrobe when they returned to Pemberley, whenever that would be.

He did have time to confer with Bingley, whose house was also in an uproar, when the sisters met to confer in their sadness. The letters were the same and very brief – Mrs. Bennet had been struck down when trying to get up from a chair and died only a few hours later. Even Dr. Bertrand's immediate intervention could do nothing. She would be buried as quickly as her daughters could come home.

"Have you heard anything else?" Darcy asked. He had been caught up in estate matters since their return from Ireland.

"No," Bingley said. "The letter just arrived this morning. I did write Louisa and Caroline, though I imagine at least Caroline knows somehow."

"They're at their country house?" Darcy said, referring to the Hursts. The Maddoxes still lived in Town full time.

"Yes. I doubt they could arrive in time even if they were initially told."

"The Kincaids will just send their condolences. They've been away from home a long time and it's a very long journey for them."

"And Grégoire?"

"He wishes to pay his respects."

Bingley nodded. "So when is it going to be an appropriate time to ask about Ireland?"

"He met a girl."

"I thought you would say that with a bit more excitement."

"He's waiting for the end of her mourning period," Darcy said. "Whether he wants anything else public is his business."

Grégoire had largely returned to his good humor, but kept to himself, and his thoughts seemed elsewhere – and with good reason. Only Elizabeth knew the whole story.

The next morning many carriages set out from Derbyshire for Longbourn. The weather was good (if a little hot) so there were no delays, and they were the last ones to arrive, completing the set of former Bennet daughters. There would be no Mrs. Bennet again until Joseph married. He looked the most sullen of all the grandchildren, having grown up with his grandmother as a constant presence. Mary and Kitty had already done their fair share of mourning before their other sisters even arrived.

As for Mr. Bennet, he had retired to his study and said he would receive their condolences after the burial. That he was beside himself was obvious enough, and they had no choice but to respect his wishes.

The Collinses arrived just in time, with their four daughters in tow. If Mr. Collins had been disappointed about hearing _which_ Bennet had expired, he showed none of his emotions in that regard. There was only a moment of awkwardness when he assumed he would be giving the sermon, only to discover that Mr. Bennet had already asked the local Rector and would hear nothing of Mr. Collins and had not the patience to tell him otherwise.

The next morning, a very somber, very large crowd gathered to pay their respects to the husband and five daughters of Mrs. Bennet. In age order and all in black gowns sat Mrs. Jane Bingley, Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy, Mrs. Mary Bertrand, Mrs. Catherine Townsend, and Mrs. Lydia Bradley. Mrs. Bennet's life work was complete. Her five daughters were all married (happily, even!) and all provided for by their husbands (to varying degrees, all acceptably).

"She outpaced me in everything we did together," Mr. Bennet said after the Rector had finished his sermon. "She was always the more active one." He paused before continuing. "By circumstance, the happiest years of my life were our first year of marriage and our last year of marriage."

He seemed to have more to say, but he could no longer stay standing, even with the help of a cane, and his many sons-in-law helped him back to his seat, where he collapsed in tears. It was not unacceptable for a man to cry after losing his wife of many years, but of Mr. Bennet, it was unexpected. Not that they expected him to be joyous, they expected more somber than grief-stricken. Mercifully, the remaining service was short and the wailing of various Bennet sisters ( Lydia and Kitty in particular) was not terrible as all five sons filled the grave.

The reception was almost as brutal as the funeral. Mr. Bennet, never a fan of public gatherings, obviously did not appreciate turning his house into one, as nearly all of Hertfordshire came to pay tribute to Mrs. Bennet. All of Hertfordshire knew her and/or her many daughters, and of course her newly-wealthy husband who had come into a great fortune only a few years before.

"I just had a thought," Bingley said to Darcy as they stood in the back, while their wives received condolences. "Of all of us, Dr. Bertrand is the only one with both living parents, and he's much younger than us. When Mr. Bennet dies, we'll be ... the old people."

"I prefer 'distinguished,'" Darcy replied. "You can call yourself _old_."

At last the reception came to a close, and those who were not mourners or married to them said their good-byes. Everyone who was not necessary made themselves scarce – except Mr. Collins, who barged in on Mr. Bennet's study when he was sitting with his favorite daughter, pouring himself a glass of wine, his first real peace of the day. "Mr. Bennet. Mrs. Darcy. I hope I am not interrupting anything."

"No," Mr. Bennet said. "However, it is very late and I am very tired, Mr. Collins. If you would be brief."

"I thought perhaps now, while I am in Hertfordshire, we might discuss matters of the estate – "

If Mr. Bennet did not have the will to intervene, Elizabeth would, "Mr. Collins, this is not the best time – "

"Indeed," her father said, capping the bottle of wine. "Come back when the correct Bennet has died, Mr. Collins, and discuss matters of the _estate_." The mean undertone was lightened a little as he added, "And you cannot inherit Longbourn just yet, sir. You are one daughter short."

Taking a glare from Elizabeth as his cue (she was, after all, his patroness), Mr. Collins most politely excused himself, if not particularly expeditiously, but Mr. Bennet did not seem to have the will to interrupt him, and just let Mr. Collins rattle on about how sorry he was to lose such a wonderful and faithful wife until the poor man shut up and actually _did_ take his leave.

"With all of my daughters settled and Mrs. Bennet now ... settled, he has no concerns except waiting for me to die, which he has been doing for years," he said, and then immediately changed topics. "She did talk of having a place in Meryton. Or Brighton, perhaps. Or she would stay with Kitty – she has always admired Netherfield. It's nothing to Pemberley, but it has its charms."

"That was a last resort to being tossed from her own home, Papa," she said. "Now she does not have to suffer that."

He just nodded, but it was a grateful nod. They sat in silence for some time before he spoke again. "Did you see Lady Lucas?"

"Yes, I received her."

"I mean, did you see her with _me?_" He shook his head. "She could have been a bit more subtle."

"You are an eligible bachelor, Papa. She was mercenary before her husband died, and now I fear it is worse."

"On the day of the burial! She's not cold in her grave ..." he trailed off, leaning on his hand. Elizabeth rose and hugged her dear father, who was crying again. "There will never be another Mrs. Bennet. For all of the years I complained of my marriage, I could never imagine having any other."

"Papa," she said.

"This is my happy ending," he said. "My daughters are all married to good men and have children of their own I am most proud of. My wife will not have to worry about a place to live after I die. Poor Mr. Collins will have to contend with the likes of Longbourn and at least four daughters to raise under its roof – the perfect irony. There is no better way this could have happened. And yet, why am I so miserable?"

"You are _sad_. We are all sad because we had not the wits to know a truly great thing until it was gone," she said.

"Perhaps we cannot be faulted for that," he said, "for so many years, she so cleverly disguised it." His sad laughter seemed to settle his wits a bit – and hers. "There will never be another Mrs. Bennet."

"That I think we can safely say is true," she said with a somber smile.

* * *

When all the guests departed and it was just the core family – still a large crowd – they had one final matter to attend do. Not so grave, but in many ways, still a blow to them all. Mr. Bennet announced he did not wish to live in Longbourn without his wife rattling way, and since the Bertrands had more business in Town than in the country, they decided to buy their own townhouse, and would lodge with the Bingleys while they searched for one. Longbourn would be closed again until Mr. Bennet wished it reopened or his death. He said he would travel to see all his daughters, but they knew he detested traveling and would likely just stay at Pemberley once he reached it. The former Bennet sisters reluctantly agreed – while they could not stand the idea of Longbourn closed up, they could not imagine it open for nothing but memories. 

All the arrangements were made, and with final good-byes for his southern-living daughters, Mr. Bennet departed with the Darcys for Derbyshire. The Bingleys briefly delayed their departure to help the Bertrands choose a suitable place, to which Darcy said to him in private, "I hope Bingley has learned to make that kind of decision on his own."

"He is just giving advice."

"Well, it cannot _all_ be praise."

Mr. Bennet insisted on riding in the carriage with Grégoire, whom he had not had a chance to grill about his adventures in Ireland, and only heard in gossip that he had met someone there.

"Have caution, Papa," Elizabeth said. "The end result was reached only through the most painful circumstances."

"Is there any other path to true love?" he replied, smiling for the first time since his wife's death.

* * *

"Mugen-san! Mugen-san!" 

But Mugen-san was not outside, where he usually was when Georgiana Bingley made one of her visits, no matter how unannounced. He always just knew. Sometimes he sat on the porch of the Japanese wing of the Maddox house and smoked a long pipe, but today, there was no pipe and his geta shoes were just outside the door, meaning he was inside.

"Mugen-san? What are you doing?"

He had only a small bag that he was sorting through. Mugen always packed light. He had no house to put things in; he was a nomad. "Leaving."

"But you weren't supposed to leave until September!"

He did not look up from what he was doing. "I am leaving tomorrow instead. So sorry, little _ookami_. I have business at home, and this is not my home. I will always be a stranger here."

She grabbed his hand and tugged him away from his packing, which only happened because he allowed it to. "For a thief and a criminal you're no good at lying."

He smiled. "I – how do you say – overstayed my welcome?"

"Did you gamble all of Uncle Brian's money away?"

"No."

"Did you get in too many fights?"

"No."

"Did you kill someone important?"

"No."

"Did you sleep with every prostitute and now you're bored?"

Mugen laughed. She was now too big for him to casually pick her up, like the old days. Instead he just walked around her and slumped onto his bed mat. "See, this is why I go. I am a bad influence on you."

Georgie could not comprehend him, and there was no language barrier between them. "Why are you leaving?"

He picked up his pipe from the nightstand – more of a low stool – and began to stuff it. "I just told you. Weren't you listening?" He took the match box she handed him and struck a light. "I told him everything."

"Who? Papa?"

"Not so bad. Brian-chan."

"Why? Why would you do that?" Her surprise and confusion quickly turned to horror.

He had no hesitation in his answer. "Because I was drunk, Jorgi-chan. Very, very drunk. Like you say, in the drink."

"In the cups."

He shrugged. "Whatever. I was drunk and he asked. Maybe he is not as dumb as he looks."

"And he's making you leave?"

He inhaled, and exhaled a long stream of smoke, not in her direction as he rose and stepped out on the porch as she followed. "He is very mad. I do not like being around angry armed samurai whom I am not allowed to kill. It is a tricky situation."

"But Mugen-san – "

"He wants the wall. I do not want to be the wall," he said.

"Will you come back? When he's not as angry?"

He looked her in the eyes. That was all it took.

Georgie abandoned all pretenses and hugged him, grabbing hold of his waist and burying herself in his silk jacket. "You can't leave me! I won't let you!"

"You could try to make me stay," he said, "but you're not that good. Yet."

"That's why you can't go."

He tried to smooth it over as he forced her to release him. "There are things I cannot teach you, Jorgi-chan. There are things I do not know, or do not know how to express. You have to find your own way." He chuckled. "Besides, if I stay, we might have to get married –"

"_Mugen!_ Gross!"

"– and then _everyone_ is upset at me," he said. "There is a trunk in the corner of my room. After I go, it is yours."

"Can I see it now?"

"No. When you need it," he replied.

"I'm coming to Japan," she said, trying not to cry in front of him. There were few people Georgie truly did not want to ever cry in front of, and Mugen was one of them. But if it made him feel bad, it was worth it. "I am going to come find you."

"I know," Mugen said. "I'll be waiting."

Next Chapter ... English Gentlefolk


	35. English Gentlefolk

Manner of Devotion

by DJ Clawson

"_Everybody likes to go their own way--to choose their own time and manner of devotion."_

_Jane Austen, Mansfield Park_

Author's Note:  A lot of people asked why Mugen left. I hadn't planned on a huge explanation because I thought it was inherently obvious. It is _TOTALLY_ inappropriate for a Georgian lady to be trained in physical combat, especially without her parents' consent. Brian found out Mugen and Nady were training her and pulled the plug on it. Sorry for the confusion.

My policy: Update twice a week or when a chapter reaches 5-10 comments, whichever comes first. Please note that I don't update on Friday nights or Saturday because of religious observance.

Warning: Accents ahead.

* * *

Chapter 35 - English Gentlefolk 

It was after Grégoire was gone that Caitlin's anxiety began to set in. She considered herself a rather stable, tough person in general, but since the beginning of her pregnancy, things just hadn't been the same. Grégoire, who seemed to know more than anyone she knew, said it was completely normal. She assumed, of course, that it would disappear as she healed from having her child cut out of her. She had made out well, she was safe, and she had more money than she knew what to do with. If Grégoire was good to his word (and he was _always_ good to his word), he would return to her. Everything was fine.

So why wasn't she happy? It wasn't physical pain that spontaneously made her break into tears. She was accustomed to pain. In fact, the fancy laudanum they gave her helped her soar through the first week. It was only when she emerged from the haze that doubts began to creep in. What if Grégoire _didn't_ come back? What if he didn't want her? What if his brother talked him out of it? She knew she was damaged beyond the scars on her stomach. She didn't bleed anymore, or courses or whatever they called them in proper, dandy England. She never felt clean. Somehow she felt less innocent than she had been as an adulterous woman with a child lying to her lover about it.

She did not know what to do or say to the servants. They made her uncomfortable, doing her errands like she was an invalid. When she was suitably recovered, she tried to dismiss some of them (leaving someone for laundry – she _hated_ laundry), but they cried and _begged_ her to keep their jobs. They wanted to serve her – or at least get paid. She was a good mistress. She was kind to them and treated them very respectfully. They did not want to leave. How could she say no? So she kept them on.

Caitlin went to church every Sunday. Circumstances had prevented it for the last eight years, since she met Neil. She was not in the habit, but the service was familiar. It was soothing for two reasons: it reminded her of her early childhood and it reminded her of Grégoire. He never pestered her about it – he asked her once in a while if she wanted to join him, and the response was always negative, and then he would nod with understanding in that adorable way that said _I understand everything_. It wasn't rebellion – she knew she didn't belong in the house of G-d, listening to the priest talk about sin. She had sinned enough and been sinned against. She would go home from services and sin. She didn't need to hear about it. If there was one thing Caitlin MacKenna had no tolerance for, it was listening to things she didn't feel comfortable with, or thought were silly or stupid. Sometimes Grégoire had beliefs that seemed silly, or even stupid, but he said them with such earnest that it was hard to dismiss them. He believed they all were following divine destinies; he believed that saints interfered on people's behalves.

He didn't belong to her; he belonged to the church. They would take him back and he would disappear back into a monastery. That was her constant nightmare – that he would devote his life to G-d again. What kind of person did that make her, to want to stand in the way of _that_?

But she couldn't imagine her life without him. It was too lonely and terrifying.

By the end of the third month, she was trying not to fully panic. She also realized quite suddenly that her whole wardrobe was black. What she had been wearing before her husband's death could not be mended or cleaned. That was when she burst into the laundress' workroom and begged, "I need someting ta wear!"

Rose laughed – not at her, but at the silliness over it. This woman had been ill and depressed after trauma, and now she was worrying about her clothing, when Grégoire would probably show up in the same tunic he always wore. Should she wear makeup? "No, marm, the English gentlefolks don't much care fer such things."

So many things to worry about, and the only dress she could find on such short notice was and earthy brown and had to be tailored on the spot, as it had belonged to a much heavier person and Caitlin was a stick. It was her first day out of jet, and she tossed off her black mourner's veil with no emotion about that except impatience. But Grégoire hadn't wasted any time, and her dress was only half-sewn to fit her when she heard the doorbell. "The pins! Hurry, please!"

It was in that shabby, half-patched gown that she raced down the stairs, still not entirely sure if she was not armored by tiny needles, straight into Grégoire's waiting arms. There were no pretenses of greetings. He had his arms open and she leapt into them. It was like receiving a dear husband of many years that had been gone for years. "Yeh came back." She buried her face in his shoulder so he wouldn't see her tears.

"I always keep my promises," he said. "I wasn't ... quite positive how you would still feel about me, but I prayed to the saints."

"What did de saints say?"

"Nothing. So I just trusted my instincts," he said. "That is, if you would still have me."

"Yer messin' wit' me," she said, "and 'tis not noice."

"So you would?"

"Why do yeh 'ave ter ask?"

He looked away shyly. "Because – well, I never thought I would ask this question to anyone, so I find it somewhat hard to – Will you be my wife?"

"Didn't yeh promise yerself ta de church?"

"The church did not accept my application." He held out his hand. In it was a gold ring. "Which was most fortunate for both of us. But you haven't answered me?"

"Are ye daft? Aye, feckin aye!" She snatched the ring and put it on her finger, kissing him. In a slightly more sedated tone, she whispered. "Aye."

Could he have really doubted it? Either way, the relief on his face was obvious. "Now of course, highborn English couples must be chaperoned during their engagement most highly, so as to not be tempted into anticipating their vows?"

"What?"

"So they don't screw around."

She laughed. It was something he would only say to her, a private world they shared. "I tink we covered dat."

"And neither of us are highborn English gentry. Thank goodness for that."

There were plans to be made – so much planning for something so far away. Unfortunately, at least part of Grégoire was in fact highborn English gentry, because his brother insisted on a three-month engagement, and the last three hadn't counted. "And when he gets in a mood it's best to just put up with him."

She wanted to cook him dinner, but she was too distracted, and he confessed to being exhausted and hungry from his travels, so they shoveled in whatever the cook was serving. "I don' want ta have a cook," she said when they were in private. "I want ta cook for yeh."

They slept together, but not in the optional sense. "I'm not – you know." She, who had been so previously uninhibited on their other first night together, was shaking at the idea. Not because it might have consequences, but because it might not.

He tucked his hand into her robe. "Don't!" she cried.

"I showed you my scars," he said, and there was such a gentleness in it that she could not help but relent, pulling apart the robe for him to see the scar in the lamplight, now almost four months old, from where the doctor had cut her open to get the snuffed out life inside of her out. He traced his thumb along the scar so carefully that it tickled instead of hurt. "I'm sorry."

"Grégoire." She swallowed. "I don't t'ink – I don't know if yer want laddies – "

"I want children. Whether they're of my blood or not makes no difference to me." He kissed her cheek. "And I'd rather test the surgeon's theory myself."

"'e said it would take a miracle."

"Good," he said. "I believe in miracles."

* * *

The next morning they tackled the immediate matter of what to do with the house. Caitlin was surprised when he said he rather liked it. "I t'ought – " 

"I feel no obligation to live in England," he said. "I am close enough here."

She had not even considered that she would stay in this house – that it might be _their_ house. It was not that the concept appalled her – it was just so foreign and unreal. "'s big."

"You've not seen my brother's house," he said with a smile. After they wandered around the empty rooms, they went outside and sat on a bench by the coast. "If it is too big, I can sell it and get something smaller."

"'snot t'at," she said, leaning on him. "I don't – it feels fierce quare, wit' servants and de loike."

"They could find other work," he said, "but the house is bigger than you're used to. Perhaps we could use one or two."

She interlaced her fingers with his. "I do 'ate washin' clothes."

"So a maid. And a man, to do the heavy work," he said.

"Dere's so many rooms."

"I have a brother and a sister," he said. "They'll visit. And I have books." He kissed her on her neck. "I want to build a chapel."

"G-d forbid yeh need to go too far fer church."

He just laughed. "And a garden. I used to have an herb garden in Spain. I liked it very much."

They circled the grounds. The property itself was not very large, but it was isolated, mainly surrounded by a forest with a single road going in each direction, eventually north to Dublin. In the south there was a little town, but large enough for a poorhouse and an orphanage, and the rest of the land was farmed.

"If you are truly uncomfortable with the house –," he said that night.

"No," she replied. "It just took gettin' used ta."

They slept in the same bed again, but did not sleep together. Caitlin was not sure she was fully healed, and Grégoire seemed more inhibited now that they were engaged to be married but not married. The fact that he was less concerned when they had no plans to marry at all was something she mocked him for, but he did not relent. But there would be separation in England – separate bedrooms and all that – and they savored this time while they had the chance.

Caitlin MacKenna, whom he considered to be the strongest woman of his acquaintance, hesitantly brought up her fears of meeting his family. "I don' have anyting really nice."

"We'll get something in Dublin."

"And I don't know how ta act."

"Like yourself. I would not expect anything less from you," he said, and kissed her. "Though you should probably keep the swearing to a minimum."

She giggled. "They're not goin' ta loike me, are they?"

"My family is full of good people. If anyone looks down on you, I will be explicitly disappointed in them."

* * *

Geoffrey didn't want Nurse to pack his trunk. He didn't officially keep a manservant yet, but he felt like a baby whenever she did something for him that he was perfectly capable of doing himself. 

He snapped the locks shut, and jumped back at the sight of the person behind it, sitting on the windowsill. Her red hair made it all the more jarring a visual for the room with dark wooden panels. "Stop doing that!"

Georgie just smiled. It was more of a scoff than a smile. "So. You're to Eton, then?"

"No, I'm to the Orient. What do you think?" he said, not truly annoyed, but wanting to rise to her challenge. "You weren't with your family when they came to say goodbye. They said you had a headache. Isn't that what women say when they just don't want to go to something?"

"Yes, but I was more subtle than that. I said I had my courses."

"Your what?"

"Female thing." She looked at the ground. "So are you looking forward to school?"

"Yes, I love tests and I hate the country." He wasn't in the mood to play the usual game with her. She was so interested in him now, even though she had snubbed him only a few hours ago. "What do you think?" Honestly, he didn't know what she thought. Sometimes it was like he couldn't talk to her anymore. "They have seminaries you know, if you're so jealous."

"Shuttup. You know that isn't what I meant."

"Then stop gloating that you get to stay in Derbyshire and I have to go to school and have exams and face bullies and teachers who won't like me because I lack a title."

Her expression softened. It rarely did so, so it was noticeable. "I wasn't. I'm sorry."

He sighed. All of the fight was gone from him. "Georgie –" But when she raised her eyes, he stopped in his tracks. He couldn't face that stare. "Listen – we've established that I don't want to go, you don't wish me to go – but I'm going. Because that is what my father did and ... well, I don't know if they had Eton then, but if they did, Grandfather Darcy went. There are _expectations_."

"Do you always do what you're told?"

"I pick my battles. Which is why I remain in good standings with _my_ parents – "

It was the wrong thing to say – in fact it was the worst possible thing he could have said. He knew it and she knew it, and he hoped that she knew he knew it. This time her eyes were lowered and she couldn't stop him with her gaze, and he came forward and embraced her, letting her lean on his chest. "I'm sorry. It was the wrong thing to say." He sighed. "I'll be a terrible master of Pemberley. My father never says anything wrong."

"That's because your father never says _anything_," she said, some of her good humor returning, even when her voice was cracking. She pulled back, wiping the tears away. "I have to be back. I'm supposed to be resting in my bed."

"You could try _occasionally_ being honest with your family," he said with an encouraging smile. "It might work."

She rolled her eyes. "Thanks for your sage advice."

They embraced again. "I'll see you at Christmas," he said. "I'll try not to be _much_ taller than you, but this I can't promise."

She kissed him on the cheek. "Good luck."

"Try to keep Derbyshire in one piece for me."

"No promises. We own a monkey," she said, and released her grip on his hand before sneaking back out the door. He didn't know why, but the sensation of her touch on his palm stayed with him a long time.

* * *

Nothing was as frustrating to Elizabeth about Grégoire's entire engagement (or the events surrounding it) as the fact that Darcy was reluctant to speak of it except in purely factual terms. It occurred to her that she had become accustomed to his opening his heart and mind to her when he would with no one else, and now his refusal to do it was all the more cutting. Georgiana was the one who supplied all of the details of their trip to Ireland – even the gruesome ones – and Darcy did confirm them later, but did not add his own commentary. 

For the three months that Grégoire spent waiting for Mrs. MacKenna to leave her mourning days behind, he exhibited all of the traits of a man besotted and denied his passion, tempered only by his quiet determination and his reclusiveness to a subject so close to his heart (he was, after all, a _Darcy_). He was overflowing in his emotions, but he would become lost in a smile whenever she was mentioned. Darcy, again, offered no suggestions, but on the other hand, did not discourage his brother from his affections.

It was not until Grégoire was gone that Elizabeth confronted Darcy in her favorite place to do so – in bed, the sheets twisted around them. "If you truly disapproved, you would have said something to him by now."

The look of defeat on his face meant she had planned the discussion's location correctly. "I suppose. But must I remind you that I have _never_ approved of any of Grégoire's choices?"

"This is perhaps true."

"Of all of the life-altering decisions he has made of his own volition, I find marriage to be the least detestable of them. So I am willing to compromise with an Irish peasant."

The wedding would have to be in Ireland to be Catholic. That would not be in open discussion until Grégoire returned, assuming he found Mrs. MacKenna alive and well and accepting of his offer of marriage. That would limit the guest list considerably, but she imagined Grégoire preferred it that way. And he would not, obviously, be taking his wife on the grand tour of Town. "He might have to wear real clothing for that," was Darcy's reply when she playfully suggested the idea.

Though the Bingleys and the extended family were more or less aware that Grégoire had found a potential wife in Ireland, the specifics were not public knowledge, nor was the date of his return, which was only an estimate. They did not see him again or hear from him when he reappeared, barely two weeks after he had left.

Caitlin MacKenna did appear at first to be the typical Irishwoman. Her hair was long, straight, and reddish-blond. That it was not up made Elizabeth initially think her younger as she approached Pemberley, hiding beneath her wide-brimmed straw hat. While they were still out of what she apparently assumed was earshot she said, "Now _t'is_ is a feckin palace."

Grégoire just laughed. Whether Darcy heard it or not, he said nothing as they approached. "Grégoire. Mrs. MacKenna." He bowed. "This is my wife, Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy."

Mrs. MacKenna curtseyed.

"Please come in, Mrs. MacKenna. Grégoire, welcome home." Darcy had told the servants not to make a fuss, but that did not keep more than a few of them from finding a reason to walk by as they entered Pemberley proper. "The Kincaids have been delayed by the weather in Scotland, which washed out the roads. They should be here in a few days."

One by one Mrs. MacKenna was introduced to the Darcy daughters – Anne, Sarah, and Cassandra. "My son Geoffrey has just left for school," Darcy explained.

"How is he? Has he written?" Grégoire asked.

"Unfortunately," Darcy said, to which Elizabeth rolled her eyes. "He is terribly homesick, of course. That's Eton for you. I will not deny that I was any different."

Mrs. MacKenna said very little, obviously intimidated by Pemberley (who wouldn't be?) and her future family. Propriety was preserved, but she did occasionally grab Grégoire's arm, which he never stopped her from doing.

"And this," Darcy said in the portrait gallery, "is our father, my son's namesake."

It was a picture of Geoffrey Darcy when he was rather young and dashing – heavily but not entirely resembling Darcy, mainly because he was wearing a wig and long coat. Beside it was a portrait of an equally exquisite blond woman. "My mother," Darcy said. "Lady Anne."

Mrs. MacKenna did not inquire about Grégoire's mother. She did not have to, and it would have been awkward if she did.

Elizabeth was eager to get to know Mrs. MacKenna, but Grégoire would not leave her side, and so no opportunity was afforded on the first day of their arrival. It took conspiring with Darcy to get him to drag his brother off somewhere. In a day or two the Kincaids would be arriving, and Georgiana would be around.

She finally cornered Caitlin in, of all places, the chapel. Mrs. MacKenna was not praying so much as sitting in the final row and knitting. "Mrs. MacKenna."

Her guest quickly rose and curtseyed. "Mrs. Darcy."

"We have not had much time to talk," she said, "and we are soon to be sisters. May I sit?"

"'s yer chapel, Mrs. Darcy."

Elizabeth took a seat on the hard wooden pew. "What are you knitting?" It did not appear to be embroidery.

"A shirt fer Grégoire," Mrs. MacKenna said, "since 'e likes ta dress all medieval." Despite the skill with which she handled the needle and thread, her hands were shaking and she pricked herself. "Shite!" She shook her hand and put the thumb in her mouth. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Darcy. Christ, I promised Grégoire I wouldn't curse. I'm not – I'm not normally like t'is."

Elizabeth had a feeling that she was, but she was under enormous pressure to present herself as otherwise, though probably not from her betrothed. It was just an unavoidable circumstance. "I apologize for making you nervous, Mrs. MacKenna, if I am doing so."

"Yer not," she said in lie. "Besides, everyt'ing's makin' me nervous. I don' know why."

"I was at my wit's end by the end of my engagement," Elizabeth said. "Everyone was telling me what to do and what to say and of course Darcy's family didn't approve – "

"Why? Yer a perfect lady."

"Maybe in your eyes," Elizabeth said, "in which case, I am honored. And Georgiana did like me, but barely knew me. Darcy's aunt, Lady Catherine, expressed her disapproval before he even made the second offer, on account of our lack of connections to society. He was her sister's son and she wanted him to marry someone of a higher station."

"Wait – de second - ?"

"Yes." Elizabeth blushed. "Our long courtship was full of misunderstandings. The first being that he thought I would be obligated to accept whatever offer he made by my family's circumstances, and the second being that I thought he was a stubborn, arrogant man whom I could never come to love. His first proposal, I rejected." She added, "The circumstances were bad for both of us and we both said things we could not take back, but it led to a greater understanding of our characters. That and I thought I might have an opinion of my own. Apparently his aunt thought this was too high-spirited of me."

Mrs. MacKenna smiled at that. "But it did – I mean, it al' worked oyt."

"Yes. But it had to come a long way before it could do that. Also, Darcys are not known to give up on love."

After a moment, Mrs. MacKenna said, "An' afterward?"

"And after what? Mr. Darcy is an adoring husband and most prodigious father to his children – "

And that was when it broke. There was a tension lurking beneath the surface greater than societal expectations for this woman from Ireland. The shirt abandoned, Mrs. MacKenna broke into sobbing that was so hard she was unable to speak for some time. It was only with Elizabeth's embrace – which Mrs. MacKenna did not have the wherewithal to resist – that she was able to gain some control over herself. "Sorry. I'm so sorry, Mrs. Darcy – "

"Mrs. MacKenna, you do not have to be sorry, but you must tell me what is bothering you."

"I hate that name," she said, trying unsuccessfully to wipe her tears away. "I 'ate him. I 'ate me dead husband. 'sthat so terrible?"

"No, not at all," Elizabeth replied. "Caitlin, tell me what is bothering you, besides that."

"I – he says it's not a problem. I know 'e means it because 'e's just so good, but –" She faced Elizabeth for the first time, her eyes red. "Why would 'e want a banjacked doll? Is he gonna say, down de road, I want laddies? He loved de other one and it wasn' even his. He loved ta feel it kick."

"I was informed that the doctor said it was not a sure thing – "

"I 'aven't been bleedin' since it al' happened," Caitlin MacKenna said at last. Elizabeth held her tongue and her physical response to hearing courses referred to in such a way (for it seemed there was a difference between them that was not so easily bridged). "I just want ta make him happy. I don' want him ta regret anyt'ing."

Elizabeth pondered her response before giving it. "Caitlin, Grégoire has made many tough choices in his life, and no matter what their outcome, he has never regretted any of them."

Caitlin could only nod, but it was clear some understanding had been reach and some nerve had been soothed. "If you are worried about it still," Elizabeth said, "you should know that you have already done your task, because we have never seen him happier than since he met you."

"Even if I made 'is 'air fall oyt?"

They shared a chuckle. "That mystery remains unsolved," Elizabeth said." Grégoire had returned to England with a bald spot that had not been there before, but it did not seem to be spreading. The loss of hair abruptly stopped. "I once heard Grégoire describe the tonsure as the crown of the church. He was very upset when he was told he was no longer allowed to wear it. As much as we all secretly or openly laughed at his monastic hairstyle, we all saw how devastated he was as it grew back. That it has mysteriously reappeared is not something I am wont to question." She added, "Though, I have had to reassure Darcy almost daily that it is unlikely to happen to him. He is _terrified_."

Their laughter filled the little chapel of Pemberley for some time before they rejoined the men.

Next Chapter ... The Dress


	36. The Dress

Manner of Devotion

by DJ Clawson

"_Everybody likes to go their own way--to choose their own time and manner of devotion."_

_Jane Austen, Mansfield Park_

Author's Note: My policy: Update twice a week or when a chapter reaches 5-10 comments, whichever comes first. Please note that I don't update on Friday nights or Saturday because of religious observance.

Warning: Accents ahead.

* * *

Chapter 36 – The Dress 

"Now just because you are not my actual grandchild does not mean I find you any less adorable," Mr. Bennet said to Robert Kincaid, sitting on his lap. The toddler could now sit up and even balance himself on someone's knee fairly well, and was beginning to shout things that resembled words more than just random cries. At the moment, though, he focused on putting his hand in his mouth. "Especially when you do that," Mr. Bennet added.

The master of Longbourn had taken up what seemed like permanent residence in an armchair in Pemberley's library. He expressed great relief in that since coming to Derbyshire, he had yet to receive another vie for an offer of marriage.

He was there for Elizabeth when Geoffrey left for Eton. Though she kept a straight face and encouraging smile on until her son was physically in the carriage, it lasted not much longer than that. Darcy comforted her, but they did not share the same level of sorrow. Her son was leaving her for the first time; he saw his son blossoming into a young man. The fact that Darcy had been to Eton himself lessened it for him, he readily admitted. It was part of his heritage; it was what boys did.

It was Mr. Bennet, however, who was able to say the right thing to his daughter. "There is a great difference when sons first leave the house and daughters first leave. The sons usually are gone for a short duration and then return. The daughters disappear permanently." With a knowing smile, he was able to soothe his daughter's heart better than anyone else.

* * *

The day after the Kincaids' arrival, the earl was invited to shoot with Darcy and Bingley, as was their custom, especially in the fall. 

"If we are to be invited for dinner," Bingley said, "it is on the condition that I will not be subjected to Irish jokes the entire evening."

"What are you, daft? You can't make jokes with an _actual_ Gael in the room," Kincaid said. "Besides yourself, of course."

"She has lighter hair than you," Darcy said to Bingley, who had not actually met Mrs. MacKenna yet. "Nearly blond."

"What about Grégoire?"

"You know very well what he looks like, Bingley."

Bingley gave him a look. "How is he?"

"How would you expect? Besotted," Darcy said. "And no, I have no intentions of interfering in the match despite all reason."

"Not all _reason_," Kincaid said. "She is a sweet woman and she is devoted to him, and he has no need of a dowry."

Darcy said nothing, firing at a stray duck flying south, and missing.

"She _is_, Darcy," Kincaid said, the only one who could speak with any authority on the subject present. "It is not just gratitude. She could easily have lived a life of comfort with the money he left her with."

Bingley, who had been privately told the particulars of the courtship (if one could call it that) of Grégoire and Mrs. MacKenna, could add _something_. "Great marriages have been built on less than gratitude. In fact, I am surprised you haven't thrown a grand ball in celebration of the fact that he is marrying _at all_."

This did manage to soften Darcy's composure, which was more guarded than usual, and had been since his brother returned from Ireland. "They are to be married by Christmas."

"A prudent time," Bingley said, they having been married the same time of year. "In Ireland, I assume?"

"Yes."

"Do you wish us to take the children while you are gone? I am assuming you are not taking them." The Darcy daughters where still all under twelve, and unsuitable for adult ceremonies, unless they happened to be held at home. "I think Jane could use the distraction."

"So I am to assume Miss Bingley took Geoffrey's departure as expected."

Bingley smiled sheepishly. "Between her cousin and Mugen-san, she's lost her two best friends."

"Since she's scared away all her governesses, you might consider sending her to a school in London," Darcy said.

"It was discussed." Bingley's tone had a definite finality to it. Meaning, she had put her foot down against it. "Stop smiling, both of you."

"I didn't say a word," Kincaid said, though he was smiling. Darcy was smirking, which for him was quite a lot.

* * *

Dinner arrangements were more complex on the Bingley end, because they were bringing their children along to see their grandfather and meet Grégoire's betrothed. Though they had tutors, the four Bingley children were currently sans governess, and had only Nurse, who the other children no longer bowed to. Only Edmund Bingley was still young enough to not put up a fight – not that Charles or Eliza Bingley had any reason to fight. 

The problem was, of course, Georgiana. She refused to get dressed for the evening and was perfectly capable of scrambling out of anyone's hold (not that her father wanted to try). She was four and ten, and her foul mood had begun when Mugen abruptly left England, and deepened when Geoffrey left for school. Jane and Bingley faced the daunting prospect of doing something beyond both of their characters – yelling at their child. It was still on the horizon, but it was there. Darcy, they were sure, could simply give any of his children a stare and they would obey, no matter what their age – but he was Darcy, and they were Charles and Jane.

They were stuck in a debate about how to approach the situation after all arguments through the door had failed when Charles the Third, now one and ten, knocked on his sister's door and was granted entrance. They decided not to listen in and face the consequences if they were discovered.

Young Charles, the eldest of the two Bingley twins, resembled his father in almost every way except his hair, which was blond. He also hadn't had his growth spurt yet, much to his annoyance.

"Hello," he said, announcing his presence. After unlocking the door, Georgie had returned to her bed and put her bare feet up on the dresser, her face buried in a book.

"Did they send you in?"

"No."

She said nothing.

"Listen," he said, mustering what courage he could. His sister was still taller than him, her voice was less squeaky, and she was an intimating person in general, "you're not the only one who's lonely. I didn't want him to leave, either."

Georgiana put down her book.

"He is my best friend – and the only boy around here. What am I supposed to do, play with Edmund?"

"You could try," she said.

"You could spend time with your sister," he countered. Georgie and Eliza Bingley were not known for their close relationship. "You could do ... sisterly things."

Georgiana's entire response was a look. It served its purpose perfectly.

"I know you're upset," he said, "but Mother and Father are now really upset because you're upset, and you really shouldn't make them upset." He frowned. "Did that sound stupid?"

"Yes," she said, but smiled. "Are they really upset?"

"What do _you_ think? You won't even put on a pretty dress."

"I hate that dress."

"Mother says we shouldn't use the word _hate_."

"Mothers say those sorts of things."

To this he had no response. She had stumped him. He frowned; she always managed to do that, because she was older. "I do not understand why you won't – "

She sat up. "I will enlighten you. I have to put on a very pretty and very expensive dress – which I _hate_ – to meet Uncle Grégoire and Mrs. MacKenna. Uncle Grégoire dresses like he made his own clothes and all he had was brown wool because he doesn't care about money or looking fancy. Mrs. MacKenna was so poor when she met him that she was starving to death. Do you think it makes either of them comfortable to see all of their relatives dressed up in fancy clothes?"

"– I didn't know that," he said, "about her. Should I know that?"

"I heard Papa talking about it. There's other stuff too, but it was complicated." She shook her head. "The point is this: I do not understand why I have to get dressed up and feel uncomfortable to make other people feel uncomfortable. Does that make sense?"

The only response he could manage was, "Did you tell Mother that?"

"She wouldn't understand."

"Now you're being mean. You're not smarter than her!"

She did halt her speech. "What I meant to say was, she – I don't know. Adults act differently. They just do things because it's the thing to do without thinking about it."

"Or they do it because it's the right thing to do."

Georgiana looked away. "Are they _really upset_?"

"Our parents? Yes."

She sighed. "All right. Get out. I have to change."

"Should I send – "

"I can do it myself."

All of the Bingley children were present at Pemberley that night, including Georgiana, who was complimented for her very pretty dress, and she curtseyed and thanked her aunt. When asked how he had gotten his sister out of her room, Charles admitted that he had no idea.

* * *

After all of the introductions were made and the Bingley children sent to eat with their cousins, the gathering of now four couples and Mr. Bennet sat down to eat. Mrs. MacKenna was silently judged to be incredibly shy, which was not entirely unexpected, and generally stayed quiet until the subject of the wedding was brought up. While it was to be in Ireland, they wanted some celebration in England so people that Grégoire was eager to attend could do so. They were, however, faced with the peculiar problem that all of the obvious hosts were in mourning for Mrs. Bennet, and could not hold a reception, and the Kincaid castle in Scotland was too far to travel. 

"There's the Maddoxes," Bingley suggested. "They are only a few miles from Town and never had a chance to host anything."

"Is the house large enough?"

"Have you seen the renovations?"

"Did they ever finish that wing? The Oriental one?" Mr. Bennet asked.

"Always under construction."

"You're not thinking of doing something to Kirkland are you, Mr. Bingley?" Elizabeth asked.

"No," Jane answered before Bingley could, then supplied him with a soothing look that silenced his opposition.

"If we turn England into the Orient, perhaps everyone will be less inclined to go there," Darcy said, "and come back with all sorts of ... things."

"Monkey is not a thing!"

"Anything you can toss is a thing," Darcy said, and took a sip of his wine.

"Who's tossing Monkey?" Elizabeth said, with an accusing look at her husband.

"_Thinking_ of tossing it," Darcy corrected.

"Who in de world is Munkay?" Lord Kincaid finally asked. He was seated next to Caitlin, who was similarly clueless.

"His name is very self-descriptive," Jane said. "He's our pet."

"Somehow he was left off the invitation list for tonight," Elizabeth said. "Because someone banned him from Pemberley."

"Someone doesn't appreciate having to chase him around the house while he was covered in mud before he woke half the house – "

"– If you hadn't upset him – "

"There is nothing upsetting about telling an animal to leave. My dogs would do it on command – "

"You tossed him out the window!"

"He was in my hands. He _leapt_ out the window. And then back in. Just to annoy me. Do you have any idea how long it took the maids – "

"Fortunately," Elizabeth said, interrupting the argument between her husband and brother-in-law, "it will not be your decision as to whether Monkey is invited to the celebrations, as they will be held elsewhere – "

Grégoire cleared his throat. "Speaking of – Would you all mind terribly if I _asked_ Her Highness and Mr. Maddox if we could use their property before we begin to plan an event there?"

Mr. Bennet laughed. "That does seem the polite thing to do, no?"

"Her Highness?" Caitlin finally said, her first words in three courses. "Yer all _royalty?_"

"Mr. Maddox is married to a minor Austrian Princess," Darcy quickly explained to his guest and future sister-in-law.

"She is much less intimidating than you think," Georgiana Kincaid half-whispered to her. "Oh! Except for all the swords."

Caitlin nodded politely and kept silent for the rest of the meal.

* * *

"I can't do dis." 

"You can."

The place Grégoire and Caitlin found to be the best location to be un-chaperoned was the chapel. Even if someone came upon them, nothing could be suspected of them, especially given Grégoire's level of religious devotion and respect for sanctified places. There they could sit in the pews and he could put his hands over her trembling ones. "They're just people," he said. "Their clothing is different and their speech is different and sometimes even I get confused by all of the titles and orders of names, but they all look the same on the inside."

"Do yeh tink dey loike me?"

"If they have any sense in them at all, they think you're a sweet, polite woman who will make me a wonderful bride," he said, kissing her. "And if they don't ... well, we are all foolish sinners, and of that sin I will absolve them."

"Of bein' idiots?"

"Assuming so, yes," he said with a smile. "You don't have to impress them. You are not marrying _them_."

"But if – "

He kissed her to silence her. "No 'if's.' They are good people and you are a wonderful woman and you make me happy. For that alone, they already love you." He squeezed her hand. "They have seen me poor, filthy, half-starved, beaten, and even wounded by my own hand. And yet my brother, who seems to the world the most pretentious, arrogant English gentleman there could ever be short of the Prince Regent himself, loved me as a brother from the moment we met. He gave me advice but he never stopped me from doing otherwise – even when he should have."

She bit her lip. "'as 'e said somethin' 'bout me?"

"He does not find conversation easy," he replied. "It is in his nature. Nonetheless, if he truly disapproved, he would have said something months ago. And even if he did, I could reply that he has been bothering me to leave the church and get married since the day we met in Mon-Claire. So there is no high ground for Darcy on this subject." He added, "Nor do I truly care."

"Den why don't we run of' an' marry?"

"Because," he sighed, letting her lean into him and wrapping his arms around her, "when I wrote to him of our situation and asked him to come to Dublin and put his own life and reputation in danger for a woman he did not even know, he did not hesitate or ask a single question. He made our union possible and if he wants to be a part of it, who am I to stop him?"

She rested in his arms from a tiring day. "I wish I'd had a family ta love so much."

He kissed her hair and said, "You're about to have one."

Next Chapter ... The Princess


	37. The Princess

Manner of Devotion

by DJ Clawson

"_Everybody likes to go their own way--to choose their own time and manner of devotion."_

_Jane Austen, Mansfield Park_

Author's Note: My policy: Update twice a week or when a chapter reaches 5-10 comments, whichever comes first. Please note that I don't update on Friday nights or Saturday because of religious observance.

Warning: Accents ahead.

* * *

Chapter 37 – The Princess

It was a year and a season since delivering Grégoire from death in Spain that the Maddoxes opened their house to receive him and his bride-to-be.

"I should warn you," Grégoire said to her as they approached the doors of the normal side of the house, "Mr. Maddox dresses as if he is mentally unbalanced. He is not."

"Den why – "

But Caitlin didn't get to finish her question, because the door opened and Brian appeared in his usual garb. "Hello, Grégoire. Mrs. MacKenna, I presume."

She curtseyed. "Mr. Maddox."

"Please come in. You must be freezing," he said. "Excuse my wife – Nady is cooking. She insists on subjecting us all to Transylvanian's finest – "

"_Subjecting!_" came a heavily accented voice from the other room. Princess Maddox emerged, wearing her Romanian dress and jewelry, looking rather majestic but for the fact that she was wearing sandals and an apron.

Brian smiled apologetically at his wife, "Nadi-chan – "

"_Subjecting!"_

"Not everything _necessarily_ needs sour cream – "

She rolled her eyes and turned to her guests. "Grégoire. Mrs. MacKenna."

"Your Highness," Grégoire said, bowing, and Caitlin followed in his stead with a curtsey to the princess, a little confused by the couple presented before her – a man in a skirt and bathrobe wearing two swords in his belt and a woman in an embroidered gown and with her hair covered in silk veils and a gold circlet.

"Welcome to our home," she said. "Mrs. MacKenna, would you like to join me in the kitchen while my husband runs away in fear of my wrath?"

"I love you," Brian said, kissing his wife on the cheek before quickly running away to show Grégoire something or another, leaving Caitlin with her royal host.

Caitlin smiled shyly as she followed Princess Nadezhda into the kitchen, where servants were running around. "He says otherwise, but he likes my cooking," Nadezhda explained. "Besides, English food is so plain. In my homeland, at least there is some flavor." She spooned some soup off the top of the pot. "Here. Too much cream?"

Nervously she tried it. "No. 'is quite good, actually."

"Good. It is your party," she said.

"Tank yeh far hostin' it, Yer Highness."

"We are honored," she said, removing her apron and handing it to the cook. "Anything that makes Grégoire happy makes us happy. I do not know what you did to him, but he is not the same man he was when we found him in Spain, or even when he recovered from Spain."

Caitlin looked down at her feet. "Not al' of dose tings were good, Yer Highness."

The princess did not look concerned. "To be together, Brian and I went through a lot and put our family through even more, but now everyone is happy. And now Grégoire will be happy. He has suffered so much." She shook her head. It was a little hard to understand her through her accent, but then again, Caitlin imagined she was sometimes hard to understand. "You know, in Spain, they thought he was a saint."

"I can imagine."

"No, I mean very seriously," the princess said. "They were going to let him die and put his bones in a reliquary. The abbot excommunicated him to save his life. Of course, I'm not Catholic, so I don't understand, but no one does." She shook her head. "The abbot thought it was better to have a living man than a dead saint. He was a good man, I think, this abbot." She was interrupted by the distinct sound of something shattering. "And my husband, who is twice my age, is a child with our things and is always breaking them. That or the Bingleys have arrived. Should we find out?"

Caitlin agreed that they should.

* * *

One smashed crystal decanter later (because Brian's carpentry skills were not what he thought they were), order was restored, and just in time to receive the guests from London. Even without their children, the Darcys, the Kincaids, the Bingleys, the Maddoxes (both couples), and of course Grégoire and Caitlin themselves made up a suitable gathering.

Caitlin was introduced to perhaps the oddest couple she had ever met, in terms of sheer mismatch. There was the spectacled Dr. Maddox, tall and thin as an overgrown weed and shy but rather pleasant. Beside him was his wife, Charles Bingley's sister, a head shorter than her husband and with everything about her perfect – her hair, her gown, her matching bonnet, her jewelry. Everything except the smile, the only one that seemed a little false, but as she was only to be distantly related to this woman, Caitlin was not overly concerned and a smile from Grégoire dissolved her unease. The Maddoxes (the hosting ones) had no children, just a large house filled with oddities from their travels abroad, and they seemed quite happy with their situation.

Separated by gender from her betrothed, Caitlin sat out on the wooden porch with the other ladies. She was the only one with her hair down (all attempts to figure out how to pin it up so perfectly had failed) but had a bonnet on at least, so she did not feel so out of place beyond where her accent already put her.

"Have you selected a location for the wedding?"

"Somewhere – nearby. Ta de house," she said. "Any church."

"But Catholic," Mrs. Maddox said. "Of course."

"'course," she replied. "Yeh can come, if yeh want, but I know 'tis a long way. Yeh know."

Mrs. Maddox said, "I'm afraid I haven't been, Mrs. MacKenna."

"What're yeh talkin' about? Don't yeh 'ave family dere?"

Mrs. Maddox colored, and Mrs. Darcy and Mrs. Bingley quickly put their hands over their mouths. "No," Mrs. Maddox said coolly. "I'm afraid I do not."

"Yeh sure? Yer t'e most Irish-lookin' fancy lady I've ever – "

Mrs. Maddox excused herself so quietly and quickly that it was hard to make out the actual words, but the intent was clear as she stormed off. It was well that she did, because she was barely back in the house with the sliding door closed behind her when everyone around Caitlin burst into laughter. "What'd I say?"

"Only the obvious," Mrs. Darcy said.

"We're being cruel to my sister-in-law," Mrs. Bingley said between giggles. They were laughing so hard they were almost crying.

"Well, I think it was worth it all the same," Princess Maddox said, and that of course brought on a whole new round of laughter.

* * *

Sometime after Mrs. Maddox had been calmed down – how that was done, Caitlin did not inquire – they sat down for dinner and toasted to the couple, to be wedded in the coming weeks, after the arrangements were complete. Only in privacy did Caitlin admit to herself and Lady Kincaid that she might like to be married in one of those pretty white dresses (even if she hardly deserved to wear white) like a princess, even if the only princess she knew didn't seem to act much like she imagined princesses would. Grégoire came to the table with red eyes, as his loving relatives had conspired against him to get him a little drunk, and he consented to every toast, and insisted one to be made to Saint Patrick, who had brought them together, and Saint Sebald, who brought him home to England, and to Saint Buddha, whoever that was, and Saint Bede – and he was lucky to make it to dessert before passing out cold on the settee.

"The soul is always in a state of joy for the love of G-d," Brian Maddox said, "and alcohol allows the body to join the soul in that joy. It can be spiritually uplifting in the right circumstances."

"I know many churchmen who would disagree with you," Darcy said, the least drunk of them all, having hardly had anything. "Where in the world did you hear that? The Orient?"

"Russia. From Rabbi Zalman of Liadi," he said, raising his glass. "We spent a winter in his house. His congregation used to drink and dance every Friday night until the sun came up."

"And spend Saturday sleeping it off," his wife added. "The rest of the week, they drank much less. Only for special occasions."

"I think a monk marrying is a special occasion," Mr. Bingley said. "Or at least a very rare one."

The party dispersed to return to their respective homes in Town. It was during this shuffling about (and carrying, in the case of Grégoire) that Darcy paused in the darkness beside the carriage next to Caitlin. "You have made my brother very happy, Mrs. MacKenna."

She curtseyed. "Thank yer." He rarely spoke to her, and so was very intimidating.

"As you seem to be the only one capable of doing so, I will be happy to see the two of you wed," he said, and darted into his own carriage before she could respond.

* * *

"There's no reason to be in a snit – "

"She assumed I was Irish!"

Dr. Maddox, who had had more than a few and was still feeling the effects upon retiring to their chambers, said only, "She is certainly not the first and I doubt the last."

Caroline growled and climbed into bed beside him, but before she could flip away from him, he pulled her close. "If you are so upset, dye your hair. But it will not match your fine skin and I would be very annoyed with you, because I would not have you any other way than you are now."

"Says the man who can hardly see."

"I can see well enough still." He kissed her on her forehead, and could feel some of her anger abate. "If you really wish to be a snooty Englishwoman, you should know you married a Welshman with a proud heritage of clan Madoc. So it is a hopeless case." He chuckled. "Do you really have any other reason to dislike her?"

" ... I suppose not. And Grégoire is obviously smitten," she said. "Will she ever have children?" They knew only minor details of her history with her previous husband.

"The doctors in Ireland said it would take a miracle," he replied. "Fortunately, Grégoire is known for them."

* * *

As an unspoken peace offering, Mrs. Maddox escorted Mrs. MacKenna to all of the best shops for wedding dresses, and between that and the pre-wedding gifts of jewelry, the women of Grégoire's extended family conspired to make her a very beautiful bride.

"I hope someone is putting some effort into putting Grégoire in suitable attire for his own wedding," Elizabeth said in passing as Caitlin was being pinned up by the dressmaker. "I don't know where he gets his clothing – "

"I make 'is shirts," she said. "But I don' 'ave time before – I mean fer somet'ing fancy – "

"It is a royal tradition in England," Princess Maddox said, to their surprise. "What? The queen is supposed to make the king's shirts. Catherine of Aragon and Anne Boleyn fought over the right to do so for Henry VIII. Don't you English know your history?"

Jane and Elizabeth exchanged giggles. "I suppose we do not, Your Highness."

"I do not think Caroline of Brunswick will be sewing any shirts for the Prince of Wales," Elizabeth ventured.

"If he makes it to the throne," Caroline Maddox said, and returned their looks with her own indignant stare. "What? I am only repeating the gossip columns. You know my husband tells me nothing, only that he is not yet allowed to retire."

"The curse of being too good of a physician," Princess Maddox said. "Has he tried again?"

"He was asked to lecture next term at Cambridge on anatomy," Caroline said. "If he ever gets his nerves together, he might ask the Prince to release him again, but as he has chickened out twice now, I am not to hold my breath."

"Men are so easily spooked," Elizabeth said. "Mention our daughters and the word 'out' in the same sentence and Darcy will flee from the room."

"My husband is afraid of standing up to your husband," Jane said to her sister.

"Taking responsibility," Princess Maddox said.

"Being out-drunk," Georgiana Kincaid said.

"Losing de rest of 'is hair," Caitlin said, and then covered her mouth in horror. "I shouldn'tna said that!"

"We won't say a word," Elizabeth assured her. "We promise."

* * *

The weather was much colder in Ireland when Grégoire and Caitlin returned than when they had left, this time joined by his brother and sister and their spouses. Despite all of her history, which made her anything but a naïve virgin, Caitlin MacKenna still managed to be a blushing bride in the church not far from her new home. Aside from the Darcys and the Kincaids there were no other guests because of the weather and the location, but all they wanted was a small crowd, having already suitably celebrated and eager to be on with the matter. Their only local guests were the O'Muldoons, who had to travel some distance (for them) for the ceremony, bringing along their many children.

"From the moment I saw yeh in town, I knew yeh would do right by her," Mrs. O'Muldoon said to Grégoire, who wore a very nice and proper vest over one of Caitlin's tunics, the best of the lot.

Lacking anyone else, Mr. O'Muldoon gave Caitlin away, and the service was of course in Latin. Darcy's only comment to that when he returned from standing up as the best man was that he found it delightfully shorter than English services, where the vicar might have a tendency to go on and on about the sanctity of marriage. If it had been said in Latin (and they both had no idea if it had), it was brief.

On December 1st 1818, Grégoire and Caitlin Bellamont were joined in holy matrimony, with the approving eyes of his family, their friends, and the church. After a celebratory luncheon, the couple was given their space, and the many presents packed in trunks from England dropped at their doorstep by the Darcys before their departure.

"There are some that couldn't get here in time," Darcy said to his brother. "Too many. I would invest in some bookshelves while you wait," he said, slapping him on the shoulder. "If she makes you happy, she deserves you."

"She is my wife," Grégoire said with a smile. "It is no longer conditional."

Georgiana gave her little brother the tightest hug she could manage. "You'll come in the spring."

"We are not so far away," he reminded her. "And I want to hear about my nephew."

"He is fine!" Darcy shouted from his carriage.

"_Both_ my nephews," he corrected. "And tell George to feel free to write me. Or visit. But perhaps not for a few months."

She nodded in understanding and kissed him and his wife goodbye. The couple watched their guests depart in their carriages for Dublin. "Do you approve of my family, Mrs. Bellamont?"

"Who cares?" she said, and pulled him into the house with a kiss and a very strong tug. "My dress itches. I want outta it."

He grinned. "I would be happy to assist you."

* * *

"How many books do yeh _need?_"

Grégoire just laughed at her comment and his situation, surrounded by trunks and trunks of books. Not only did he have his own collection, and many gifts of a similar sort, but Darcy had also sent him the entire library from the Isle of Man. "These belonged to my Uncle Gregory."

"De mad one?"

"The very same." He closed the book on Greek history, and a dust cloud came forth from the binding before he put it on the shelf. The others would have to wait – the wood had come, but he had yet to finish the bookshelves. He was only a week married and other things consumed his time, but he wanted to build them himself. It was his house and he wanted to make it his.

"Jesus was a carpenter," he said to his wife.

"Really?"

"Really."

"Dey don't mention dat a lot in church."

"I think the other things he did might have been more important."

The construction of the chapel would wait until the spring, when the weather was better. The household staff was reduced to two maids and a doorman/groundskeeper. The unpacking of their wedding gifts the Bellamonts did themselves, which included a significant amount of fine wines for the basement. Grégoire, who was still a Frenchman on some level, appreciated it. There was of course some confusion about what came from whom, to the point where some items were just a mystery.

"Grégoire," Caitlin said, passing him a framed painting. It was Saint Patrick, in the same pose from the ruin, pointing to his left – a common enough picture in Ireland. "It doesn' 'ave a note."

"I like it very much anyway," he said, and hung it in the main hall, so he would pass it every day when he entered.

Their life settled into a happy routine, similar to the one they had had before but far less desperate. By the first snowfall, merely a dusting before Christmas, they were quite settled, even if every last shelf was not put up and every cupboard not filled. Caitlin wanted to attend Midnight Mass, but it was cold and she was not feeling well, so he insisted she stay behind, and walked there and back himself. By the time he returned, it was nearly time for Vigils. Even if he sometimes missed the early morning prayers, being otherwise engaged, he always knew when it was. The moon was bright and he could hear the waves of the sea even from his front steps, so quiet a night as it was. When he entered, the house was quiet, the servants sent home for the holiday and his wife asleep.

Grégoire was restless; he saw Caitlin nestled under the covers but did not yet join her, planting a kiss on her before searching for another room, where he would have a better view of the moon. He had not realized he'd moved the desk in the study to face directly out. It was little more than a writing desk.

_When I pass away_, he thought, _will all of the magic that brought about this time in my life be forgotten?_ His own life, he could not say, would have meaning to others in the distant future – but how could he be sure? He could not bring himself to write anything too personal – too much love and too much pain, none of it designed for the paper he pulled out before him. Instead he inked his pen and began to write,

_This poor sinner, _

_Comes to think, on this holy night, how I came to be here, and what meaning might be gleaned from all of the things that have occurred – not just the events, but the method in them of bringing me from one place to another. Can I begin to fathom the holy plan, if indeed there is one for me? I used to think so, but now there is only a simple life for me. What is my existence to mean, then? If I am to have no lasting impression, how should I conduct myself in the time that I have, to live it as joyously as it deserves? _

He was still writing when the sun rose, but he hardly noticed. The first thing to break his concentration was his wife's hand on his back. "What're yeh doing up so early?"

"I would say the same for you," he replied, looking up at his wife and her pale complexion. "Of course. Would you like me to make you some tea?"

"Just a little," she said. "If yeh don't mind."

He took her hand and kissed it. "I never do."

Next Chapter ... The Knight


	38. The Knight

Manner of Devotion

by DJ Clawson

"_Everybody likes to go their own way--to choose their own time and manner of devotion."_

_Jane Austen, Mansfield Park_

Author's Note: My policy: Update twice a week or when a chapter reaches 5-10 comments, whichever comes first. Please note that I don't update on Friday nights or Saturday because of religious observance.

Next chapter is the last one. In the author's notes will be information on the next story.

* * *

Chapter 38 – The Knight 

"Today I will do it," Dr. Maddox whispered as they entered Charlton Hall. "Today."

"I can hear you," Dr. Bertrand said with an amused tone. "You should perhaps ask him at night, when he's more inclined to any request."

"I will not ask important decisions of a man while in a state of severe inebriation," Dr. Maddox said. "Especially if he has the ability to go back on that decision when he has a bad headache the next morning."

The Prince of Wales, still Regent as long as his dying father remained in that state, was usually in such a condition when one of them visited him. Since the dual death of his daughter and her child (and his heir), he had not been so inclined to his usual schedule of indulgent parties, but that had not curtailed his drinking or his liberal use of opiates for any perceived pain. The fact that he stayed mainly in his bed in fits of panic did not help his weight, to the point where there was real speculation if he would see the throne before the aged King George III passed away. Neither physician added to the gossip filling Town, but the servants of Charlton did the job well enough.

"There is also the matter of my conscience," Maddox admitted to his protégé, "for abandoning a patient I so utterly failed to treat."

"You cannot force the heir of the throne of Britain to exercise unless you manhandle him, it seems."

"They did that to his father," Maddox said, shaking his head, "and look how he turned out. Madder than when they started."

They silenced their conversation upon entering the Prince's chambers. The Prince Regent was, of course, still in bed despite it being two in the afternoon, and with no intensions to do otherwise. It took a lot of coffee, a lot of prying, and some actual manhandling to get him upright, dressed, and sitting in a chair for the doctor's inspection.

"You are actually quite well, aside from the obvious," Dr. Maddox said after completing his inspection. "I am worried about the bump on your knee, but there is nothing to be done for it at the moment. And, of course, you should wean yourself from your laudanum, cut back on your drinking, control your portions, and get regular exercise."

"That is hardly news," the Regent said. "You give me the same advice every week."

"Because you never take it."

The Regent smiled. He had excessive amounts of grey in his hair for someone his age, due to stress and his poor diet, most likely. There was some compassion there – he had just lost his only daughter and grandson to complications in childbirth. Still, he had not been a healthy man when it happened, and there was always talk of his inheriting his father's illness – talk which Dr. Maddox did not believe to be true. The Regent wasn't mad – just under stress and corpulent. "How is my father?"

"I do not know, Your Highness," Dr. Maddox said. "I do not read the gossip papers and I am not in regular contact with his doctors."

"But he is still alive? I am not king?"

"No, Your Highness. You are not."

The Regent put his hands on his temples. "Thank G-d for that." His old humor seemed to briefly return, if only in glimpses. "I suppose someone would bother to inform me if I was made king."

"Sometime before the coronation ceremony, I'm sure."

The Regent smiled. "The only ones who have not forgotten about me are my doctors, and I sense they have a mission today."

Dr. Maddox bowed to the Regent's senses, which were not totally lost. "Your Royal Highness, I have been offered a position as a guest lecturer at Cambridge in place of their old anatomist."

The Regent nodded slowly. "And I suppose this would be a springboard to a full professorship."

"If I found it to my liking, it would. Assuming I was relieved of my duties here, which of course are my first and only real concern."

"You've been trying to be rid of me for a year now, I think," the Regent said, and not with malice. "And of course I've put up a horrible fight. No, Dr. Maddox, I would not be comfortable if you were not in my service – however limited the aspect was," he said. "Dr. Bertrand would assume most of the responsibilities. You have worked this out among yourselves?"

"Yes, Your Highness," Dr. Bertrand responded. "I have taken up a house in town with my wife and son and have no intentions for any other residencies. My patient list is limited and would be even further so with additional responsibilities to your person."

The Regent nodded, mulling it over. "I assume this guest lecturer position would be limited hours, in case I needed you."

"Cambridge is not terribly far from Town, Your Highness."

"So you would intend to take up residency there?"

Dr. Maddox nodded. "While I would retain my house in Town, I feel that I have reached a point where my family would benefit from a manor in the countryside, not far from Cambridge. We would be closer to our relatives in Derbyshire as well."

Again, the Regent was silent for a time, a very nervous time for Dr. Maddox. "I suppose your protégé can manage the task of giving out advice that I never seem to take. With a new salary for his new position, of course. You will, however, retain your own position to the extent that if I call on you, you will come immediately."

Dr. Maddox tried to hide his joy. "Of course, Your Highness. Thank you, Your Highness."

Their examination done, the doctors were dismissed with a wave of the Regent's hand. They were nearly out the door before they heard his voice bellow in the chamber. "Oh, and I suppose I cannot have one of my own physicians presented to the world as anything less than a knight of the realm. Be here tomorrow, the same time. And you can invite your wife and brother, but no big ceremony. I despise ceremonies." He said in passing, "And there is a royal holding of some land in Chesterton. If it is to your liking, there will be a designation for you."

Dr. Maddox bowed, now legitimately awed. "Thank you, Your Highness."

"Enough! I have no patience for ceremony. Go and be overwhelmed somewhere else, Doctor, and I will see you on the morrow."

* * *

Brian Maddox's first question was, "Can I wear my crown?" 

"Your crown?"

"I do have one, you know. You've seen it. I am a _Prince_." He frowned. "Or a count now. I was never clear on that. The point is I never get to wear it."

Dr. Maddox was in too good a mood to refuse anyone anything. "I will still never call you 'Your Highness,' you understand."

"Easily understandable." They embraced, and toasted to his good fortune. "And I assume Caroline is – "

" – still recovering from her faint, yes." In actuality, Caroline Maddox was on her feet and busy scribbling letters to everyone she knew, but her excitement had not waned.

"She's really willing to give up Town?"

"For part of the year, yes. It will be good for the children to not be breathing smog all the time, and Emily is years from being out. Thank G-d." He raised his glass to that. "An estate in the country. I never imagined it."

"There is no one more deserving. Hell, I have one, and we all know I am a contemptible rogue and probably a madman. Congratulations, Danny." He was as pleased with his brother as Maddox was happy for himself. "Perhaps we should invite the earl of Maddox around sometime. You know, I do outrank him."

"In a small area of Transylvania, you might, but in England, he would say otherwise," Dr. Maddox said.

"Hey! Unlike him, I earned my title."

"_Earned?_ You married it!"

"Yes, completely free and without complications," Brian said. "Well, cheers to you. If you don't want me to show up in royal garb, uninvite me now."

Dr. Maddox smiled. "I wouldn't dream of it."

* * *

"I hope he'll show," Brian said. 

"I hope he'll be at least partially sober," Dr. Maddox said, fidgeting nervously in his dress clothing. It was nothing compared to the awkward metal crown Brian was wearing, more of a helmet than a circlet, and studded with ancient jewels and stones that looked more bashed in than carefully placed, with an Orthodox cross at the top. In his Romanian costume and with his very distinguished wife beside him, Dr. Maddox had to admit that his brother did look sort of ... _royal_.

"Your brother gets a crown," Caroline Maddox said on the other side of him. "What do I get?"

"To be called 'Lady Maddox' for the rest of your life," he said with a hapless smile. "It was the best I could do."

She gave him a smile that indicated she was more than happy with the situation.

The non-aristocratic Maddox couple bowed at the entrance of the Lord Chamberlain, the Marquess of Hertford. "Prince and Princess Agnita of Sibui."

"Marquess Hertford."

"May I present His Royal Highness George Augustus, The Prince of Wales, Earl of Chester, and Prince Regent to His Majesty George III."

The Regent entered upright and actually walking without a wobble, which surprised Dr. Maddox somewhat. In fact, he looked the best he had been in weeks, perhaps because much of his girth and ill-look was hidden by the royal robes and crown. The Prince Regent, who previously had been seen sobbing in his bed, was quite capable of assuming the character of a man in control of his life and his country when required – he did so regularly during ceremonies he could not avoid, which would only increase when his father died. Despite his usual casual nature, Brian had the good sense to bow to his future sovereign.

"Your Royal Highness," the equerry said, "Dr. Daniel Maddox is known for his dutiful service to the Crown in the field of medicine."

The Prince Regent, who was not known to stand on ceremony despite being required to do so on a regular basis, gestured for Dr. Maddox to kneel before him. Fortunately between the gin and Laudanum, he still had enough coordination to wield the sword. "I knight thee Sir Daniel Maddox, Order of the Garter." He touched each shoulder and passed off the sword to his equerry and took from him the chain, putting it around Maddox's neck. "You may rise, Sir Maddox."

"Thank you, Your Highness."

Fortunately the Regent did not stay to see how choked up his doctor was, and left with the servants carrying the tail of his long coat. In the haste of it all there was no reception. Dr. Maddox hadn't wanted one anyway, remaining an intensely private man.

"I used to read him stories about knights when he was recovering from eye surgeries," Brian whispered to his wife as Sir Maddox was embraced by his own wife, "and now he gets to be one, without all the fighting. Same amount of gore, though."

* * *

"Papa, if you're a knight, where's your sword?" Emily Maddox said as he sorted through his medical books for the ones that would go to Cambridge. "And your armor. You have to have armor to fight dragons." 

"I don't fight dragons. I'm not that sort of knight."

"Uncle Maddox has a sword."

"Uncle Maddox thinks he lives in Japan," he replied to his daughter, who was now ten, "where he would need a sword, I suppose."

A week had passed, and Sir and Lady Maddox had received the congratulations of their friends and relations in Town in person and their Derbyshire relations by post, on account of the winter weather. Grégoire and Caitlin Bellamont probably had not even received the letter announcing his honors yet. The spring term would start soon, and he was due in Cambridge three days out of the week.

"Mr. Wickham to see you, sir," the servant announced, and George Wickham entered the study.

"Sir Maddox," he bowed. "Miss Maddox."

"You can do that nonsense with my wife, but not with me," he said. "I've always preferred 'doctor' anyway. I worked hard enough to earn it." He turned to his daughter and gestured for her to shoo. "Mr. Wickham. What brings you by? Are you intending to loot my library again?"

"If I did I wouldn't have any room for the spoils, Dr. Maddox," George said with a shy smile. "I've come for your advice about University."

"I told you not to worry about your credentials, Mr. Wickham," Maddox said, pulling another volume off the shelf, dusting off the cover to see the title, and replacing it. "Not everyone who enters University went to Eton or Harrow, or even knows half of what you do if they had private tutors. I didn't go, your Uncle Bingley didn't go, and my brother attended only his first two years. I honestly think they might just be to get ill-mannered boys out of the house for a few years, before they can go on to University and become ill-mannered men." He added, "Excepting your cousins, of course, who are always on their best behavior." But the expression on George's face was not that of a man soothed. Dr. Maddox frowned; the young Wickham was so distant and stubborn – not always to negative ends, but once he had a notion in his head, it was hard to shake it.

Maddox put the book currently in his hands down, and placed one hand on George's shoulder. "So – are you still set on Oxford, then? Not that you don't have time to decide."

"Yes."

"It is a fine school. My father went there." He was never quite able to figure George Wickham out – not that he didn't try. "Not that you are tied to any choices now. You have some ways to go yet, Mr. Wickham. And if life has taught me anything, it is not to assume too much responsibility unless you absolutely have to. Otherwise you might end up a gambler, a drunk, and eventually marry a princess and walk around with a set of swords like you're some kind of medieval knight."

George gave one of his rare half-grins. "Says the knight himself."

"I _hope_ it is merely an honorary title and I will not be called to don a suit of armor," Dr. Maddox said.

* * *

Because of the speed with which it was given, Sir and Lady Maddox were not able to celebrate their title with the family for some time, and put it off until the next family gathering, which was not until the early summer. Dr. Maddox was back and forth between Cambridge and Town, and as predicted, was offered a full professorship in medicine for the fall term. Lady Maddox spent much of her time with her sister surveying the properties outside Cambridge before selecting a manor, which would undergo renovations to her tastes. 

The families gathered in Derbyshire for various celebrations, one of them being Geoffrey Darcy's completion of his first year at Eton, which he did want celebrated, at least not in the form of all of the adults telling him how much older he looked and what a wonderful young man he was turning into. He was more interested in relaxing with his cousins, fishing in the pond with Charles and Georgiana, with his loyal hound by his side.

"So how is it?" Charles Bingley the third asked rather eagerly, as he would be attending the following year.

"Fine," Geoffrey said. "A lot of work, and some of the boys are snobs, but it's all right."

When Charles was reassured, he left to collect more bait, leaving Geoffrey and Georgiana to themselves. Georgiana Bingley, who had no real interest in fishing, always sat against the tree and played with the flowers, tearing off the petals and tossing them into the water to make them float. "Nice sandals," he said of her wooden geta shoes.

"Thanks," she said.

"They were a gift?"

She nodded.

Geoffrey sighed. He hadn't been able to really talk to her over Christmas break, either. He didn't understand why then as much as he did now, having been gone for almost a year. "I need you to teach me how to fight."

This got her attention, and some of that old self-amusement. "You _know_ how to fight."

"I know how to fence. That is different."

"Since when did you take such an interest in pugilism?"

"This isn't pugilism. I just want to be able to ... get out of a fight."

"The aristocracy of Eton knocking Geoffrey Darcy around? Your father wouldn't stand for it! Think of the family honor!"

He grinned. "I'm not saying I can't throw a punch. I'm not Uncle Bingley."

"Papa fought a master pugilist in China!"

"I heard he lost."

Georgiana smiled. "So you mean to say, in your very proper and roundabout way, is that you want to be good at it, in case some older boy decides to thrash you for fun?"

"...Yes. That is what I am saying, in my very proper and roundabout way."

"Pity I can't be there to protect you."

"I wish you were there," he said, and then uncomfortably changed course. "So will you teach me?"

"I might," she relented. "Violating all the bounds of decorum, of course."

"I've never known that to stop you."

"Then it's agreed. Unless you're to Ireland?" she said. "Why can't Uncle Grégoire come here?"

"It isn't just a visit. Mrs. Bellamont is completing her confinement in August. Or September. They're not sure. But at least this time I know how it works."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes, really. I don't know what school was like when Father went, but some of these boys have filthy –" He reddened. "I can't talk about this."

"Talk about what?"

"Don't tease me. You know."

"I really don't."

"Well, I can't really –" He couldn't look at her. "You should ask your mother, if you want to know."

"Oh," Georgiana said. "No, she wouldn't say a word. This is the sort of thing a woman is only supposed to learn on her wedding night. Though it's positively mystifying – "

"Well, maybe it should be," he said defensively. "Wait – how do you know?"

"Because Papa has a locked drawer in his study that isn't _well_ locked and has some interesting literature in it," she said. "All kinds of pictures of monsters. I thought it was some kind of fantasy book. Plus, George has all these books –"

He interrupted, "How do you know what dirty books George Wickham has?"

Georgiana straightened. "Because Izzy told me," she said almost defensively. "Not that I asked him about it. Ew."

"Then why are you asking me if you won't ask George?"

"Because I like to torture you. Of course you can keep all of your Eton secrets, which are probably all wrong anyway. G-d, you didn't really think I would ask you seriously about that sort of thing?"

He smiled. "Thank you, no. I mean – I wasn't sure."

"Even though you just asked me to help you punch people."

"That is not precisely what I said, but yes. And it's still different."

"I suppose," she said, and returned to a more restful position as her brother returned.

* * *

The Darcys and the Kincaids - minus their children (Geoffrey was a last minute decision) – arrived in Ireland to find the Bellamont house quite different from the way they had last seen it after the wedding. Not only was a stone chapel addition still under construction, but the house had its halls lined with bookcases and pictures – mainly of saints. The furniture was wooden, some of it half-carved. "Grégoire's really in ta this carpentry business," said a very pregnant Caitlin MacKenna, to which her husband just smiled. She went about the house and grounds as she pleased, but did not seem to be eager to do much of it, and their dinners were cooked by a chef and not her, for which she was quite apologetic despite the fact that none of them expected it of her. "I do deh cookin,'" she said, "but 's hard ta stay on me feet." 

Their rooms were not grand, but they were clean, and they were decorated. Grégoire and Caitlin had dedicated themselves to making the house their own. It was not the grand sort of renovations like the ones that Lady Maddox planned for her house outside Cambridge. The drapes were not made of the finest materials, the carpets did not necessarily match, and there was less organization to everything, but everywhere, there was a touch of something that was clearly either Grégoire's or Caitlin's handiwork.

Darcy looked at the writing desk in the study, which faced directly out the window to the ocean, and picked up one of the wooden figures on the shelf. It was a man with a beard and a halo surrounding his head.

"I'm not very good," Grégoire said, "but I rather like the process."

Darcy replaced the figurine. "This desk looks familiar."

"It is not the one from the Isle of Man," Grégoire replied, "but it has a similar arrangement. I do like looking out at the ocean when I write."

"I've been reading your columns," he said. "The paper will protect you?"

"If there is anything to protect. I doubt new ramblings about the saints and modern day religion would upset anyone." He smiled distantly. "Then again, I have always been very naive about what is upsetting to people. Especially the church. Yes, they will protect my anonymity." Grégoire had published several sermon-like columns in a Catholic paper in Dublin, under the name 'A Poor Sinner' despite the fact that Darcy would describe him as neither. They were wandering philosophical arguments, generally rather uplifting, and had some popularity for the inspirational crowd, apparently. "I have written nothing controversial and have no intentions to do so. Nonetheless, if the church wishes to say something to me, I must only remind them that I am an excommunicate and that will end the conversation."

"How convenient."

"Very," his brother said. "The local daily in Belfast has also picked up the column."

"You will be careful?"

"I will not make that promise," Grégoire said, "as I always seem to break it. But no, Darcy, I am not making trouble."

"Good," Darcy said with a tone of finality, "because I'm sick of getting you out of it."

They were fortunate to have come so far to laugh about it.

* * *

Precisely nine months after her marriage to Grégoire Bellamont, Caitlin's labor pains began. That she had become pregnant at all stumped the local doctors, but not in the bad way, and as there seemed to be nothing the matter, they were all encouragement. Grégoire did not announce it until after Christmas, when they were sure. 

What he was less thrilled about was the prospect of staying downstairs with his brother and brother-in-law throughout his wife's travails. Darcy finally agreed to go upstairs and ask his wife how things were proceeding, and only got within twenty feet of the door before he heard such a steady stream of sailor-like curses in the form of one long shriek that his ears were still burning when he returned to the study. "She is fine," he said, pouring himself a drink.

"That feckin gobshite! I should've na'even 'ad kids – s'what the doc said," a distressed Caitlin said to Elizabeth, her brogue getting heavier as she became generally less lucid, to the point where not even Georgiana or the mid-wife's soothing voice could begin to calm her. "I 'ad ta marry a stupid feckin saint and 'is stupid feckin miracles and 'ave a stupid feckin miracle kid! I'd like ta stab _'im_ in the stomach – "

Elizabeth pressed a cloth to Caitlin's brow. "You would hardly be the first wife to curse her husband in this condition." Despite her distress and her reddened face, Caitlin still looked too young for all of this – one and twenty. The same age Elizabeth had been when she had Geoffrey. Had she really been that young?

"For fecks sake, let dat langer up 'ere and I'll feckin do it meself!"

The mid-wife encouraged otherwise, and by the end of the day, the wailing of another person, who had never wailed before, filled the Bellamont house. A slightly inebriated (maybe more than _slightly_) Grégoire bounded up the stairs before either of his brothers could follow him and charged into the room. Fortunately there was enough time for the baby to be properly cleaned and bundled before the appearance of his father. Grégoire stumbled at the sight, and was quickly grabbed by Kincaid, who helped him into the chair to receive the baby that he was informed was a son.

"Drink dis, marm," the mid-wife said as the others offered their congratulations and excused themselves from the immediate presence of a very exhausted Caitlin Bellamont, who could only crane her head at the sight of her husband and the child wrapped in a blanket in his arms.

Grégoire's first response was a laugh, as he very carefully released one hand to stroke the few strands of brown hair atop his child's pink head. "If I had known that such a wondrous thing could exist on earth, I would have said my prayers of thanksgiving so much harder through my life. I certainly shall now." He looked to his wife, who smiled weakly back at him, her voice for now silenced.

* * *

The very next day, the local priest baptized Patrick Bellamont in the newly-consecrated, still half-constructed chapel. Lord and Lady Kincaid stood as godparents. The service was basically the same as an Anglican one, and little Patrick was as oblivious to it as any newborn. Caitlin, who leaned on her husband, had knitted the white outfit herself the month before. 

Despite the expected exhaustion, Mrs. Bellamont recovered her health relatively quickly, and was judged to be out of danger with great relief. The largest of the gifts, which had been packed most carefully and remained hidden in the carriage for days, was a wooden cradle with the Darcy seal on it, a little aged but otherwise in perfect condition. "It might have held my husband, for all we know," Elizabeth said to Grégoire. "Or Mr. Wickham. There are only a few cradles in Pemberley that we could find."

The Darcys were lodged in the next room, and overheard an argument – not a mean one, but with loud enough voices to be heard – between husband and wife over the hiring of a nurse.

"I can raise me own laddie!"

"I'm not saying you cannot – "

"I'm not sick!"

"I was not implying that you were – "

Elizabeth had to glance at her husband and share a laugh at the experience of the younger brother and his wife, because it was only after two nights that Mrs. Bellamont quickly relented and agreed that maybe another pair of female hands was "a good idea."

On the final night of their stay, Darcy woke very early, long before the daylight and cockcrow. Looking at the grandfather clock he had sent from Pemberley as a wedding gift, he saw it was half past four, later than the earliest monastic office of the day, Vigils. Grégoire was up, of course – he found his younger brother sitting in the study, facing the window. In one hand was the pen, scribbling on the paper, and the other balanced his sleeping son in his lap. Darcy approached cautiously.

"He is quite soundly asleep," Grégoire said in a lowered voice. "After all the racket he made a while ago. I hope he did not wake you."

"No," Darcy replied, and raised his candlestick to get a better look at his newest nephew. While the sight of a baby never left him unaffected after four of his own, the fatherly glow on Grégoire's face was even more moving to him. "I suppose he is named after the saint?"

"It was Saint Patrick who brought me to Caitlin," Grégoire said, discarding his pen for the moment to wrap his other arm around his son. "Now things come full circle." He rocked the baby, who shifted in his arms but did not wake. "I am truly a blessed man. I could not have imagined being a husband and father would bring me such joy." He looked up at Darcy. "Everything I could possibly ask for, I have received. What am I to do now?"

"If you are lacking occupation, I would remind you that you will be quite busy until the day he leaves for University," Darcy replied, "though it may happen sooner than you think."

The two brothers sat together in the study, facing the ocean and the morning light that rose on the horizon, and Darcy had his turn holding his nephew Patrick, the newest grandson of Geoffrey Darcy.

Next Chapter ... Epilogue


	39. Epilogue

Manner of Devotion

by DJ Clawson

"_Everybody likes to go their own way--to choose their own time and manner of devotion."_

_Jane Austen, Mansfield Park_

Author's Note: And at last, we've come to the end of Gregoire's story. Not that I'll never use him again as a character, but he doesn't overgo a radical transformation again. So I'm betting when you guessed where he would end up after leaving monastery, you didn't think "in an adulterous relationship." If you look up at the quote above, it will probably make more sense to you as to why I chose it to open every chapter. This story, by the way, is not meant to decry the idea of monastic lifestyle. It was a story about dealing with the cards you're dealt, which are not always the ones you want, and making good of it.

The next story is currently untitled, though it's almost ready to go; I'm just bad at titling things. So between me and my beta Brandy, we both feel story 6 is the best one. It just is. The next story is the first one where we see the kids as emerging adults (something I ironically promised I wouldn't do), and begins when Geoffrey and Georgiana are 16 and George Wickham II/III is 17. Obviously a lot of things in this story were laying the groundwork for the personalities of the various children, though they still share the stage with the adults.

If you have questions, email me, leave a reply with your email, or just post it and I'll answer it (to an extent) in the preview for the upcoming story, which I'll post probably sometime next week. I'm in the middle of an intensive publishing course at NYU right now, so when I get out in mid-July, the next story should start going up. Everyone please say "thank you" to Brandy for betaing thing for me and catching all of my horrible typos and inconsistencies. You wouldn't believe how hard it is to keep everyone's ages straight.

For your information, the first two stories have been revised and are sitting on various publishing desks, and I'm hoping for a positive response. So far people have been encouraging but no one's said "yes" yet. No, I am not interested in self-publishing through LuLu or even my own company at this time.

To answer a question I'm pretty sure will be asked, Mugen will not be in the next one, but he will eventually return to the storyline. His presence, however, will certainly be felt.

* * *

Chapter 39 - Epilogue

1 Year Later

Abbot Francesco had been composing a reply to the Roman bishop, but he was lost in thought again, as had been often to happen as of late. A product of getting old, he supposed. His wandering mind was focused again as Prior Pullo entered. "Father, there is a priest here to see you. Father O'Banan."

"Father O'Banan?"

"He says he has come a long way. From Ireland."

He nodded, if not in understanding. "Thank you, Brother Prior. Send him in."

The man who entered was all in black, except for his collar. His red hair was not particular contained, and he looked a bit disheveled from his journey, but otherwise was quite composed. "You are Abbot Francesco Chiaramonti?" he asked in Latin.

"I am."

He bowed. "I am Father Michael O'Banan, from Belfast. Please pardon my intrusion."

The abbot gestured for him to sit. "What brings you to Spain, Father O'Banon?"

The priest opened his sack and nervously removed a tiny bound book, which he held almost reverently in his hands. "On behalf of the archbishop of Belfast – and myself, I admit – I've been making inquiries into the author of a series of anonymous editorial columns of an inspirational nature that have been published in the local papers for two years now. They've become so popular that the first set were recently compiled into a book, which is now a bestseller." He set it on the abbot's desk. The abbot opened it, but it was in English. "The author is 'A Poor Sinner.' His real name is Grégoire Bellamont."

That name had never been far from the abbot's mind, even mispronounced through an Irish brogue. He flipped through the book, but his English reading was far worse than the little English he could speak, and it solved no mysteries for him. "Have you met him?"

"I have, in fact. He lives south of Dublin, and despite the fact that he wishes no attention to himself, he did greet me quite warmly." He swallowed. "I understand he was once a brother here."

The abbot closed the book. "He is an excommunicate. It is forbidden to speak of the monk who was dismissed from this abbey."

"So he said. I thought I would try anyway."

The abbot leaned back in his chair. "It is _not_ forbidden to speak of this layman, assuming he has not taken holy orders in secrecy."

"He has not."

"Then how is – Mr. Bellamont?"

Relieved, the priest continued, "He is quite well. He is married, and has a son named after Saint Patrick who is still an infant. As I said, he is not known as a literary celebrity, but locally, he is known as an extremely charitable man. He teaches at an orphanage. Besides writing, that is his primary occupation." He added, "There is something ... strange about meeting him. He never says an ill word, and he is all reverence and joy, but also humility despite his obvious vast scholarship in religion."

"So Grégoire is still as he was, in many ways," the abbot said with a smile. "You cannot fathom what it means to me to hear that he is well. But – he is under investigation for his writings?"

"No. Technically, yes, but it is a matter of curiosity. They are extremely popular, as I have said. Priests and preacher alike are known to use the material for their sermons. He writes of the joy of daily living, the ways to see how Christ and his saints influence our lives – all very positive, which is quite different from the hellfire sort of speeches more common in Britain. But he has written nothing controversial to any church doctrine."

"And he writes – in English?"

"Yes. There was actually a question as to some of his quotes from Latin and Greek texts, as we did not recognize the precise wording, until we realized he was not quoting from direct translations, but using the original text and translating the work himself. Except for the Good Book, where he uses the King James. When I asked him about it, he said he knew it would be blasphemy to do otherwise, and he knows better than to write something to upset the church."

The abbot nodded. "Then he has learned well." He pushed the book back to the priest. "I cannot read English, unfortunately."

"The publisher said there will be a Latin edition next year. He is doing it himself."

"Very good. I would be eager to read such a thing," the abbot said. "So, Father – how can I help you, since you seem to know more about this layman than I?"

The priest hesitated. "Though he discouraged me from doing so, I cannot help but wonder the circumstances surrounding his excommunication from the Benedictines. He will not deny it, but he will not otherwise speak of it."

"Then he has a great deal of tact," he replied. "Grégoire was misused by the church and nearly killed by it – and I do mean that literally. Despite much penance, I have never forgiven myself for the events that led to his excommunication – though, in all truth, it sounds as though it was the right path for him." He stood up and went to his shelves, where he found the scroll he needed, and returned to the desk, unrolling it. "This is my condemnation of his actions and announcement of his excommunication from the order of Saint Benedict. My principle goal upon signing it was not to damn him and encourage penance but to save him from Rome, which was ready to label him a living saint and use him to their own ends. While I have never regretted my actions, they have always weighed heavily on my mind." He rolled it back up. "The precise circumstances of it do not speak well of anyone involved – myself, the bishop, or the Archbishop of Oviedo. However, now that he is delivered into safety, there may not be a need to have a document condemning him. If I am to tear it up, I would like his opinion on it first. You say he lives south of Dublin?"

"Yes," said the priest. "Are you in need of transportation?"

One last journey for one old abbot.

* * *

"We should stop here," the priest said, and pulled the horses to a stop in front of a large building not far from the last town on the dirt road, deep in the forests of untamed Ireland. "He may be at work." 

The abbot just nodded and took the priest's hand to help him off the gig. He needed a staff to walk, especially on such a long journey, as they approached the building, which looked a bit – but not entirely – like a church. Made of stone and with a wooden roof, it lacked any signs, but it was obvious enough from the chorus of children's voices that it was an orphanage. The abbot was helped to a bench as Priest O'Banon spoke to the local priest in quick English, too quick for the abbot. At last, O'Banon returned to him. "The lesson is almost finished, if we would wait."

Abbot Francesco nodded. "We will wait."

They were offered beer, and accepted to parch their thirsts. Sitting in silence, they could make out some of the speech that was behind the closed door.

"And what letter is this?"

"Jaaaaaaaaaaaay!"

"And what does it stands for?"

The children answered him in their thick brogue, "Jesus Christ, our L-rd an' Savior!"

"Very good," said the teacher, who did not have the same accent. "Now I see it is time. You are all dismissed."

There were some cheers and the children came rushing out, but some of them stopped. "Mr. Gregory, candy!"

"Candy is for saint's days and Sundays, you know that. You'll ruin your teeth if you eat it every day, Miss O'Brien."

After some resistance the last of the children emerged, to be herded by the head of orphanage to the meal room. It was only then that their teacher emerged, and the two guests rose to greet him.

Grégoire Bellamont was not as the abbot expected, but he had not been sure what to expect. The former monk was not dressed like an English gentleman, nor like a priest or a local worker. His brown tunic and belt made him look more like a beggar and the cross around his neck like a pilgrim, and there was a bald spot where his tonsure used to be, but besides that, he was unchanged. He looked healthy, but shocked, and after a momentary stutter, dropped to his knees. "Father Abbot."

The abbot offered his hand so Grégoire could kiss the ring. "Grégoire. It is good to see you."

"But we are forbidden – "

The abbot had already removed from his satchel the scroll, and held it before Grégoire, not waiting for him to recognize it (if he would at all) before tearing it in half. "I would do so not only to try to undo some of the damage that was done to you, but so that I could speak to you once more before I die."

Father O'Banon, who spoke little Spanish and therefore could not understand their conversation, sensed the mood perfectly as Grégoire and the old abbot eagerly embraced.

"My son," the abbot said, kissing Grégoire on the cheek. "It is good to see you well."

"I have you to thank for that," Grégoire responded. "Please, let me invite you to my home. Father O'Banon has told you of my situation?"

"Yes. I am pleased."

It was not a far walk to Grégoire's house, and the abbot shooed Father O'Banon, insisting on walking there himself. "I will catch up with you." The priest nodded and took the gig on the road.

"Come, Father, I believe it is time for Sexts. I end my class just before so I can make it back on time."

* * *

Abbot Francesco and Grégoire Bellamont prayed together in the chapel he had added to his manor house, a structure of gothic stone. The abbot was surprised that Grégoire seemed to be keeping the monastic cycle, even if he was under no obligation – nor expected – to do so as a layman. Grégoire did not have stained glass, but someone had painted on the windows, and the paint was thin enough so that light could still come through, giving much the same effect. 

"My wife," Grégoire said. "She likes to paint." He pointed to the different windows, all of men with halos. "Saint Patrick, Saint Bede, Saint Benedict, and Saint Sebald."

"Ah, yes, your old patron," the abbot said, referring to Sebald. He did not know a monk so dedicated to the Bavarian saint. He had not even heard the name until Grégoire joined his monastery.

"Dinner should be ready," Grégoire said, "and you have not met my wife – or my son."

"Yes, of course."

They made their way through the side door into the house proper, where the smells of food filled the room leading to the kitchen. At the sound of the door shutting, a woman emerged, wearing an apron over her dress and a scarf over her head. In one well-practiced arm she carried a boy, looking to be about a year old, with brown hair like his father. "I didn' know we 'ad company."

Grégoire kissed his wife with no shame, and took his son from her before turning back to the abbot. "Father, this is my wife, Mrs. Bellamont. Caitlin, this is Father Francesco Chiaramonti, the abbot who saved my life in Spain by ordering me away."

She curtseyed to the abbot, who bowed a little nervously. He had never met a former brother's wife before.

"And this, of course, is Patrick," Grégoire said of his son, who was currently pulling at his hair and babbling incoherently. "Named after the saint who brought me to Caitlin."

"'e believes all t'is stuff, about saints guiding 'im, like they 'ave nothin' else ta do wit t'ere time," she said, her local accent quite distinct. It took all of the abbot's English vocabulary to understand her. "And honestly, I'm startin' ta believe him."

She excused herself to get their meal, and Grégoire guided the abbot to the best chair at the table, grabbing a pillow for his old back.

"G-d bless you," the abbot said.

"Do you wish to hold him?" Grégoire said in Spanish.

He had not expected this. "Yes." How could he say no? Why would he say no? When he was safely seated and comfortable, little Patrick was set carefully into his lap, staring wide-eyed up at the mysterious old man. "Hello, Patrick. You are a sight I never expected to see." His only memories of children came flooding back to him – of the occasional child he had christened, but mainly of holding his younger brother, now the Vicar of Christ, as a newborn. Had his brother been so precious? Had his own father exhibited the same glow of pride that was so clear on Grégoire's face? For a monk, pride was a sin. For a father, surely there was no sin in that. "He is wonderful, Grégoire."

"He is a blessing from G-d."

"Blessin' from G-d what keeps stickin' things in his mouth," Mrs. Bellamont said. Patrick had just grabbed a wooden spoon from the table and shoved it in his mouth, and she moved swiftly to remove it, at which point, he began to cry. "'scuse me, Father."

"Of course."

She lifted Patrick out of his arms and into hers, rocking him into complacency as they sat down to eat. According to Benedictine custom, no one spoke until they were finished, when Grégoire showed the abbot his writing tablet, and some of the Latin translations he was working on. "I would be honored if you – "

"I would love to."

The abbot spent the afternoon going through the Latin translations of the columns, rough drafts though they were. The subject matter would vary, and Grégoire was wise enough to rely heavily on quotes from church fathers rather than making the key points himself, but the undertone was the same. The joy he found in a humble, ordinary life was transmitted perfectly. The arguments ranged from simple to complex, and he had scattered notes about revision in between the lines, but he had apparently found his calling – and an audience. That he believed that his entire life was destined to follow a specific path was reinforced by his attitudes.

As he read, the abbot occasionally looked up and through the window. Young Patrick was still mastering being upright and his father was helping him walk along the shore, the waves lapping at his tiny feet. Grégoire had finally found people to pour his love into – people who deserved it, and not just dead saints.

"My son," he said the next day, when it came time to depart, "can you forgive me for all the ways in which I have wronged you?"

Grégoire smiled. "Considering what the consequences were, I cannot help but thank you, much less forgive you."

"I'm old, Grégoire. And tired. I want to step down as father abbot," he said, continuing despite Grégoire look of surprise, "but I had to move on, and I could not do it without your forgiveness."

"You would be surprised of what you are capable of," Grégoire replied.

They embraced one more time. The gig was ready to go, and the abbot was ready to move on. He left behind his staff, and Grégoire gave him a parting promise to send along the Latin compendium of his works, and his greetings to all the brothers he missed so much. Mrs. Bellamont curtseyed politely to him, and Patrick's goodbye was not verbalized in actual words but with babbling as he flailed his free hand in the abbot's direction.

As the abbot boarded the gig beside Father O'Banon, the priest remarked on the loss of his walking stick.

"In the presence of a saint," he replied, "you find yourself without need for further support."

The End


	40. Next Story Preview

Sneak Preview

Up next is a story, which still doesn't have a good title. Look for Chapter 1, "The Problem with Mr. Wickham" up soon on FFnet.

Aside from the short plotline at the beginning, it's a very action-oriented story, so it was hard to pull a scene without giving a lot away. Here's something that occurs in the middle of the story.

* * *

Despite his gregarious nature, Geoffrey Darcy wanted to keep his birthday to family and friends, and since he spent little time in London, his friends were largely his family. He had never spent a Season in Town, being an Eton boy, and he did want to contemplate marriage at eight and ten. Though the tenants and servants of the grand estate of Pemberley loved a free meal as much as anyone, the celebrations were not open to the public. 

While not every Bennet sister came, The Bertrands made three out of five (Lydia was invited but apparently did not wish to venture to Pemberley again) and the Maddox clan came as well, being closer to Derbyshire than the Townsends and the Bradleys. There was a relaxed supper and many toasts, though few of his rights and privileges had changed upon his birthday. They had already happened; he was a man able to sign legal documents, be a member of clubs, play the field as an eligible bachelor, gamble, drink, and consort with prostitutes – the fact that he did none of those things was of little consequence. In fact, the most significant milestone was not to be his birthday but his University entrance in the fall, and that was the real celebration. There he would learn some classics, make all the notable friends he would need for social success in life, perhaps have a bit of fun (or more than a bit), and then graduate to a life of bachelorhood and possibly matrimony before his father died and he inherited the estate. Such was the future for him and he knew what was expected of him, and he had never failed to rise to the occasion before, so they gladly toasted to the Darcy heir.

But the day did not begin with celebrations. It began much earlier, in the morning before the guests rose, in one of the back rooms of Pemberley.

Geoffrey Darcy relished many things about fencing, but the occasional spar with his father was not one of them. Not that there was anything particularly unpleasant about the behavior of either person, but he found it positively confounding to face someone who fought on their left side. His only experiences, in his sheltered existence at Pemberley, were with his coach, and with the only other cousin who practiced the sport, Frederick Maddox, and both fought properly, with the right hand. But his father was left handed, or had been since an accident long ago that he hardly remembered, because his right hand was lame, and though he could use it, not to do anything precise. And fencing was indeed very precise.

Even though he was in his late forties, Master Darcy of Pemberley had not fully abandoned his favorite sport, even at an age when it was quite appropriate to do so. Occasionally he lacked in stamina, but when the match came down to wits, he was a master. And he made it abundantly clear that if his son was to bother at all with a foil, he should be, as well. He was remarkably patient, even with his son's occasional fit of frustration, or the time when Geoffrey actually tossed his faceguard across the room with such ferocity that it put a dent in the stone wall. The anger was at his father, of course. It was that damned tricky left-handed foil! But Father only shook his head and said, "You will get it. Though I would prefer if your youthful exuberance did not destroy _all_ of Pemberley."

"Then you should never let me spar Frederick again."

Father merely raised an eyebrow, his way of demanding a thorough explanation.

"It wasn't _my_ fault."

"Or you would not have admitted to it. Does this have anything to do with the pillar I needed to replace?"

His parents were astoundingly, frustratingly clever. "Perhaps."

"And the fact that he pushed you into it?"

"You – you knew?"

"Of course," his father said, taking the servant take his foil and armor away. "There is very little in Pemberley that happens without my knowledge."

"But – you didn't say anything?"

"You did admit to me that a pillar had been destroyed and did not supply specifics. If I wanted them from you, I would have asked."

Geoffrey sat down beside his father on the bench, trying to puzzle out exactly what Father was expecting from him. There was clearly something there, but he could not get at it. His father always wanted him to think things through, even when his mind was in a daze from the rush of combat, and he wanted nothing more than to dunk his head in cold water and perhaps rest for a while. Perhaps he was mistaken and nothing else was required – but it was better to be safe. "So – are you asking now?"

"As I have said, I already know the specifics. But, while we are on the topic, I would like to hear your commentary. I think it would be interesting."

Interesting. It was probably not that. Father was probably expecting to glean something from the reply. He knew that much. "I don't have much to say about it. Fred shoved me into the pillar and since it was wood and half-eaten by termites on the inside, it broke."

"And nothing about that strikes you as odd?"

"Well - ," Yes! Now he had it. "It is not gentlemanly behavior to engage in physical combat in a duel of swords."

"Correct. But it is also not gentlemanly behavior to pass judgment on another fighter. But I will take into account that until I pressed you, you clearly did not, except for your original comment, which was another response to mine."

"But he's a cousin."

"So are you making a judgment on him or his fighting style? Because they are the same."

Geoffrey looked at him quizzically.

"A man reveals almost everything when he fights. Very few are capable of subterfuge in the heat of battle. On the most basic level, if he constantly attacks, then he wishes to either scare you or defeat your quickly. This you know."

"Right. And if he parries constantly, he is waiting for an opening."

"Yes. But it goes beyond that. If you know the fighter, character can be taken into account. If you don't know the fighter, you can learn a lot about him from fighting him. It requires astute observation, but it is often the key to winning a match. For example," his father said, "you are very young – "

"I'm not a child!"

" – in comparison _to me_, and are at an age when you have a certain ferocity that is fueled by the particular position of being six and ten. And also, when your face is particularly flushed, you are too aggressive for your own good, and will fail to block. In fact, I have just told you the great secret to how I beat you, because I assure you, it is not by stamina, or skill, as my left side was, originally, my weaker side, and not the one I trained with." He gestured and the servant brought them water. "I win not because you lack any particular skill for your age, or do not have the coordination. I win because I have spent many years learning to read my opponent."

Geoffrey nodded and swallowed that particular information with his refreshment. His father seemed tired, and needed a breather anyway, even from talking. He could remember a time when his father did not have so much grey around his ears. After some silence he asked, "Did grandfather fence?"

"As a boy, I believe so. He had long given it up when I was of age."

"Then who was your partner? Uncle Bingley?"

"No, I had not met him, and he has never once fenced. I spent a great deal of my years before Cambridge sparring your Uncle Wickham."

"I never met him, but I remember his funeral."

"No, I vaguely recall that Bingley hosted him at Kirkland while you were there. But you were very young and therefore simply may not remember it. It was not a remarkable visit or they would have informed me so."

"What was he like?"

His father hesitated for some reason before answering. "As a fighter, very aggressive. But then again, so was I. I would say, we were even until the day I first beat him, and then he threw down his sword and would not fence me again. Or did not, for some time."

"So, like Fred."

"I would hardly put them in the same category," his father said. "This is not to make an assessment of Frederick. You should be very careful when making assessments of people, son. It can misconstrued as gossip."

Geoffrey knew his father held gossip in very low esteem, even though everyone seemed to do it, all the time. It seemed to be the entire purpose of any social gathering, as far as he could tell.

"On the other hand," his father continued, "if you felt that your cousin was engaging in behavior that was unsafe, you should bring it my attention, as I am responsible for you safety – and his, while he is under my roof."

"But you said already you will learn it anyway."

"Slowly and through many mediators. Entirely different than if you say it yourself. And it is partially your own responsibility to bring it forward."

"I'm confused," Geoffrey said. "Am I supposed to say it or not?"

"Well, since we've gotten this far, I suppose you should."

He swallowed and decided that he would. "I don't think Fred is very ... gentlemanly ... when he fights."

"How so? Besides shoving you into a pillar hard enough to break it."

"He is – ferocious."

"Both a danger and a weakness. It is important to look out for one and take proper advantage of the other – in a duel, that is."

"He's so – I don't know. Different. Like, say, from his father."

His father said nothing.

Geoffrey took his as an urge to continue. "Does Uncle Maddox know how to fence?"

"He does not."

"Because – I can't imagine Uncle Maddox fighting anyone. He's so proper and – not to say this isn't proper – pacifist. Fred is so different from him."

Darcy did not respond directly. After a few moments of sitting, when his breath was truly and finally caught, he slapped his son on the shoulder. "We're all different, son. The changes just happen more gradually than we perceive them to. We celebrate a year's growth, all in one day." He added, "On the other hand, the day you beat me, that will be very dramatic. And traumatic, for me."

His son smiled as he smiled, and Darcy thought inside, _But I'm looking forward to it_.


End file.
